


The Longest Memories

by Phoenixflame88



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Aftermath, Ambiguous Relationships, Arranged Marriage, Calm Before The Storm, Civil War, Falling In Love, King Alistair, Multi, Queen Anora - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-08-04
Packaged: 2017-12-10 23:41:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 38,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/791526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phoenixflame88/pseuds/Phoenixflame88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Between starting blood feuds with Tevinter mages and razing Amaranthine, the Warden cannot seem to leave Anora's court in peace for more than a year. Now Thedas reaches a boiling point with Orlais, mages, Templars, and the Chantry. Acting for love, duty, or politics--Anora finds the line increasingly broken and blurred.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Perspective and Truth

**Author's Note:**

> Anora's take on life post-Blight, her complicated relationship with a city elf Warden-Commander, and her growing fondness for her marriage of convenience.

Anora cannot say she  _hates_ the Warden. The elf led the attack against the Archdemon, though certainly not alone. She cobbled together an army, though not without coarse politics that would make a queen wince. She  _can_  say she wishes the elf would leave her court in peace for longer than a year.

"Why do you use two blades?" the princess pipes up.

The queen sighs at her daughter, precocious and curious. Not bad traits, but the girl never stops talking.

The Warden smiles, green eyes glinting. "The fight's over twice as fast."

The princess does not understand, though she is a well-schooled child who never hestitates to ask a question. "Don't you _like_ fighting? Why do you want it over?"

A light laugh, and the Warden hikes her leg up on the table like an exaggerating pirate. The scar marring her lip reinforces the image. Anora refrains from ordering her to remove her foot from the table, but only just.

"What do you see?" she asks the princess, gesturing at her slender leg, thankfully wearing breeches. Anora sees corded muscle, but the Warden is still a bird-boned elf. "I'm a girl, silly. I can best any man in a fight—oh, except the King of course," she laughs, "but I will never have their size and strength. So I fight quick, before I can tire."

Anora sees her kind smiles and winking eyes, but knows the girl speaks with deftness and persuasion as a practicality, nothing more. When not feeling practical, she sounds every bit her upbringing. Anora remembers the day when the Warden's infiltration of Arl Howe's estate turned into an assault by the time she reached her door.

* * *

* * *

 

_"Maker be damned, a fucking ward?" A ragged edge to her voice—Anora can tell she has been fighting._

_"I think kicking it will just make it angry, my dear." A warmer voice._

_"Is anyone even in there?"_

_"I would greet you properly but I'm afraid we have had a setback." She sits at the small desk and squirms from an itch unreachable in her armor._

_After the ward died, the Warden returned. Anora knows she is a city elf, but her father had not described her further. She is dressed like a Howe guard, excepting the helm held in one hand. She had to be a small thing beneath it, thin and wiry as a piece of rawhide. No helmet—Anora would learn later they bothered her ears—left her face open to study. Sharp, like the rest of her. Darting wolf eyes, green, fierce, and cutting. Red hair tied back, and greasy after a long estrangement from a bath._

_"Warden," Anora begins, unsure of her name. "You must promise my security. I am not to be identified should we encounter more guards."_

_The elf rolls her eyes. "Yes, your Majesty, I will tell anyone we meet that the spotless blonde in poor-fitting armor is not the Queen of Ferelden."_

_Moments later the Warden stops dead, facing down twenty archers. And Ser Cauthrien. Maker knows the woman is like a hound after a scent._

_"You are wanted for the murder of Arl Howe and his men," the knight begins, trying to hide her fury behind cold authority. She demands the elf and Alistair come quietly._

_Anora feels this is about to go very sour. She will be identified, and have to claim a kidnapping. Not how she wants to meet the Warden, but even with Howe dead her position is tenuous._

_"Me?" the Warden cries. "I am one of Howe's men!_ You  _are breaking and entering."_

_She has stalled for time to find a small dagger. Through with words, she throws it at Loghain's chief lieutenant. In her defense, it would have worked had the target not been Ser Cauthrien. The knight knocks it away and gives the order to attack. She is already meeting the Warden's daggers with her greatsword._

_If any wonder why she does not join the fray, they do not ask, too distracted by the Wardens, a long-haired elf, and a hawk-eyed apostate._

_The Warden's daggers snap out like fangs and she moves almost as fast as the lightly armored elf. But Anora knows she is mortal, for eventually she makes the mistake of dancing too close to an archer. Too close because she expected him to use his bow, not his gauntleted fist. It catches her where jaw meets throat and sends her spinning, spitting blood, snarling, but the moment on her knees is enough for Cauthrien to kick her onto her back, put one foot on her dominate arm and set her sword against the Warden's throat. For her part, the she-wolf offers a bloody grin. Alistair yields for them._

* * *

 

* * *

"Except the King? You are too modest, my lady." Her husband enters the dining hall, finally done with a correspondence. Alistair has the same grin every time the Warden arrives at court. He can change his words, but not his smile. "You haven't seen her wrestle with a bear," Alistair stage-whispers to his daughter.

"If I stood back its claws would rip me belly to breast ," the Warden retorts. "Far better to get close enough to smell what it had for supper, then drag both daggers across its throat while you distract it."

The princess looks entranced with her beatific hero. She has not let her handmaid bundle up her hair, leaving it down in a flaxen swath. Anora lets her exert her authority with everyone but her tutors and parents. Better to teach her heir to be too bold than too demure. That, she decides, is the chief reason she does not curtail the Warden's influence.

The Warden is too sharp and raw-cut to be a traditional beauty, though Anora does not deny her striking qualities. When not clad in armor, she lets her scarlet hair fall down her back, unkempt and untamed. Her eyes are large in elvish fashion, dark green and piercing for all her small stature. The near-decade since the Blight has softened her features the slightest, though Anora suspects age has as much a hand as gentler living. Nothing about the Warden is gentle.

Alistair settles beside Anora as a servant fills his cup and another ladles a bisque into a bowl. He takes her hand in his callused one, casting her a smile before turning his eyes back to the Warden, who stands across from him. Anora has learned not to take too much offense. The Warden keeps her word.

* * *

 

* * *

_"I'm not going anywhere."_

_Anora feels the twitch in her stomach. It took years to kill the sting whenever she heard rumor of some bann's second daughter catching Cailan's eye. The Warden senses it._

_"It's a political marriage, aye? You don't even have to see the goofy bastard except for heirs. I met my betrothed on our wedding day."_

_"You are married?" the queen asks, trying not to sound perplexed._

_"Aye. No. Almost. In the Alienages our elders pick. Mine was nice enough—he didn't say anything when I threatened to dodge the ceremony. Did you ever meet the late Arl's heir? Bann Vaughan?"_

_"Yes," Anora replies. She had disliked the man. The stories about him were almost as bloody as his death by renegade elves—Anora pauses, pieces locking together._

_"Miserable bastard," the Warden continues. "He ruined my wedding and dragged several of us to his manse for a bit of raping. My cos and betrothed—two people, I swear—came to our rescue. Last I saw of my intended was a sword jutting out his back. So never married, but my point is that it's just a fancy dress and a dowry." Her gaze softens. "What I mean to say, your Majesty, is that I would never deceive you. But if I survive this Blight, I cannot just leave Alistair. Not after our time together. We are both Wardens, so there will be no worry for unwanted…creations."_

_Anora catches her game. Her hard tongue can soften like warmed honey and her speech can pass as educated, when she wills it. Anora does not think for one moment her story was meant for anything other than persuasion, but she does not sense the Warden lies. If her talent was sensing magic rather than deception, Anora would be a High Seeker by now._

_"Very well," she says at last. "But I must have your word for two things. You will spare my father if you can. And when Alistair and I are married, you will not embarrass me."_

_Not like Cailan. A bann's daughter once became too bold during a feast. Loghain had threatened her father to drag her home, lest she have no home in which to return._

* * *

 

* * *

The Warden keeps her vow. She does not avoid Alistair in public. That act is as much a sign of a tryst as stolen kisses in the hallway. Instead they play as old war companions and fire-forged friends. Closer to siblings than lovers. It is not all an act, Anora knows. That, and any noble's dalliance with an elf would be with a whore or servant. The Warden is neither. The queen has as sharp an ear for gossip as falsehoods, and she has never heard of the Wardens together.

The midday meal is blessedly informal—Anora has no desire to fake smiles and imply threats as she must when more nobles are gathered.

"Your trip to Orzammar went well?" Alistair asks.

The Warden's smile breaks for a moment. "I barely saw Orzammar. I accompanied House Dace to Amgarrak Thaig, where I saw the scariest thing in my life." Her eyes do not lie. This has the table intrigued, even the queen.

"Hopefully not a deshyr too passionate for his Bronto," he says. "I don't think I could ever unsee that."

She laughs, her light lie of a laugh. Anora does not know if Alistair recognizes it. "There was a Bronto, a nice one. Instead, we found the remains of an experiment. A bad one." Whatever it was, she tells the soft version.

"How bad?"

Her voice lowers. "It turned Branka's stomach." She has the intended effect of Alistair dropping his spoon. "Part of it was still kicking, but we put it down."

Despite the grotesquery she must have encountered, Alistair has that keening sheen to his eyes again—Anora knows he misses adventure. Few will spar full-out with him for fear of injury. When he says he will train his daughter to be a battle maiden just to have someone to keep him in shape, Anora does not think he jests.


	2. Revenge or Justice

At first, Anora thought the Landsmeet ripped the Warden and Alistair apart when the elf granted her father mercy. This did not give her happiness at the time, but satisfaction there would be one less rumor to quell. Alistair was younger and foolish then. He has matured since; he would be insufferable otherwise. Regardless, his outburst only added to the Landsmeet's theatrics. Some say the Warden has a she-wolf's heart, but if they had been in Denerim that day, they would agree she has a thespian's soul.

* * *

_"I will be Alistair's champion."_

_A stunned silence, followed by murmurs and chuckles. This skinny elf, challenging Ferelden's hero, Loghain Mac Tir?_

_Anora's heart pounds. She has placed her throat on the chopping block and now someone will swing. Her father will leave the Warden a bloodied mess on the floor. Then she must face him, after calling him mad before the bannorn. Or, if her father somehow loses, this elf will have to kill him to beat him. And if he does yield, Anora now doubts the Warden would stay her blade. She has seen the Warden and Alistair together, and now Alistair's face is stark with fury at the man he blames for Ostagar._

_The Warden wears odd black dwarven armor and no helm. She wields two daggers, rune magic dancing along the blades. In her small hands they look like shortswords. They circle like dogs, and with a sound the battle begins._

_Anora cannot decide if the Warden fights like a rogue or warrior. Each stab aims for the throat or vitals, and she never stays in place long enough to take a direct blow. Yet, her armor is strong, and she uses none of the feints or backstabs common to an assassin._

_But her father knows this dance. She will not wear him down. She will not realize he is faster than he looks. He waits, striking and blocking with grim skill, but his sword never does more than screech off her armor and parry her own strikes._

_Then the Warden steps a fraction too wide, a moment of imperfect balance. Loghain lunges and smashes her with his shield. She is, for all her accomplishments, still a fine-boned elf. She flies back, hitting the ground in a painful crash. Loghain stands beside her, sword raised to end it. Anora sees Alistair straining—a hulking Qunari and a stocky dwarf have him by each arm, straining with the effort. Only his panic keeps him silent._

_The explosion rocks Anora back and cries echo through the chamber. In truth it is more sound and sulfurous reek than destruction. The Queen has heard of these rogue weapons, small explosives meant to stun. Smoke forces her to squint to see the battle through a hazy scrim. The bomb sends her father stepping back, surprised more than hurt. That is all the elf needs. She leaps to her feet and batters him in the windpipe with the pommel of a dagger, his breath choking just as her boot hooks around his._

_He goes down. Of course is he the Hero of River Dane; he does not fall. He lands hard on one knee, the other bent before him. He can still cut her open easily, but before he can raise his shield her blades are at his throat, a twitch away from breaking the skin. Even breaking her wrists with his shield would risk a severed artery. That they have stopped short makes Anora stifle a gasp._

_"I underestimated you, Warden" he says, winded and hoarse, unflinching as red bead trails down his neck. "I yield."_

_The Warden spits a glob of blood onto the stone floor, sweat pouring from her forehead, more blood dripping from her mouth and split chin. Damp tendrils cling to her face. Anora sees her considering. For the barest moment they flick up to her, green and piercing._

_"I accept," she says, just as breathless. "If you try to kill me, my companions will not consider it part of our duel."_

_He bristles at that. "I am not some assassin."_

_The Warden smirks, faintly, and steps back, daggers still in hand._

_"I didn't just hear you say that! You're going to let him live?"_

_Alistair has wrenched his way free and storms into the circle, his own blade drawn, ready to take her father's head even if it costs him a throne. The Warden steps between them, undaunted. Her father glares pure venom at the elf's intercession, as if he_ needed _someone to defend him from this younger Cailan. Then another man breaks through, a tall stranger with a mane of dark hair._

_"There is another option," he begins, his Orlesian accent belying his native features. He suggests the Warden conscript him._

_Alistair looks close to choking. "Joining the Wardens is an honor, not a punishment!"_

_The Warden argues with her enraged lover, trying to pull him aside and speak privately. The elf's eyes have locked on his, compelling him to fall in line. Anora guesses she planned this. The Warden surprised her when she promised to spare her father's life. She never mentioned pressganging him into the Order, but when the queen thinks back to Arl Eamon's estate, she knows the Warden was considering more than her future with her lover. She overestimates his common sense, or at least her hold on him._

_Alistair refuses. He will not move to a quieter location where she can persuade him, or stand and accept her purpose. It makes the Warden's knuckles white over her unsheathed blades._

_"He sold your people into slavery," Alistair cries, looking as if she has been taken by a demon._

_Anora has seen the damning letter, filched by Erlina from Eamon's estate. She debated keeping it, knowing it would not ruin the Warden's chances at the Landsmeet. She believes—wants to believe—it was Arl Howe's influence. The reptile presented himself as a master of intrigue, assuaging her father's dislike of politics. A crime allowed bears all the wrong of a crime committed; she also believes this, but some wrongs can be addressed in privacy._

_"Aye, and he will follow an elf now," the Warden growls. "My loyalty is to the Wardens first. I came here for them, not Ferelden." A half-truth, Anora thinks in later years, when the Warden treats an order from Weisshaupt like a birthday card._

_The Warden spoke differently when she accused Loghain of enslaving elves. Her father had blanched in fury when she shot back,_ "You accuse me of handing Ferelden to Orlais. How is offering it to Tevinter any better?" _Given the blood mages at the Circle and rumors behind the Arl's poison, her strike drew blood._

_"You put me on a throne," Alistair says, voice halting. For the first time, Anora detects a threat. So does the Warden._

_She glares, offers a bloody-toothed smile. "If Loghain survives the Joining, he will be a Grey Warden. Exact a king's justice, and you will be known as King Arland, Second of his Name."_

_"You promised me we would stop him!"_

_"He's stopped. You never said_ kill  _him."_

_In years since, Anora has come to realize the Warden always stands by her word. Often her literal, deceptive word, but still hers. According to rumors, the Dalish keeper would rue the day she agreed to end his clan's curse, had she not kept her word and taken his head. The queen imagines it comes from the Alienage. In poverty, what does one have as collateral, beyond one's word?_

_Anora cannot read the Warden's face now. She is furious, but only in part. She had to know Alistair would balk, but not this much._

_At once, Anora senses the tension reaching a pitch. Alistair still looks ready to attack. Her father's hand has drifted back to his sword. Perhaps out of habit, though more likely he is weighing the outcome of killing Alistair. And Arl Eamon—he looks ready to rally his men to defend their heir._

_Regardless, Alistair's dramatics have gone on long enough. A poor image for a king._

_"Alistair, compose yourself!" She can still crack her voice like a whip._

_She walks right to him. Brandishing a sword at an armed warrior is one thing, an unarmed woman is another. Jaw clenched too tightly to speak, he sheathes his blade._

_The Warden kept her word. Anora will not be bested and break the engagement. His temper does not worry her—the palace guards are loyal to her and her father. Even now, her betrothed is red-faced. Still too fuming to look embarrassed, but he is arriving there. Anora looks to the balcony of Arl Eamon and finds much the same fury, only better reined. She does not begrudge him his reasons, yet she knows he would have supported her overthrow. For that she offers him a swift smile. To gloat would be undignified._

* * *

Anora thought that would be the end of their relationship. Alistair sulked in a tavern until it was time to draw his blade at Denerim. Then, between the slaying of the Archdemon and the palace celebration, he visited the Warden. She convalesced in her bedchamber, conscious but half-crippled. Apparently not  _so_  exhausted. Anora never knows what was said or done, but slowly the ice thawed between them. It took the Warden nearly dying at Vigil's Keep for it to mend—never without a tinge of betrayal, Anora guesses—but enough for the queen to thank Arl Howe for turning traitor so she could install the Warden as distant Amaranthine's new liege-lord.

The day after the royal wedding, the Warden leaves for travel, her elf assassin in tow. Anora does not know if this out of courtesy, but it relieves her just the same.

Their marriage has its awkward beginning. He looks too much like Cailan but has none his inborn authority. Anora does not pretend to love him, but she tries her best to be hospitable. He reciprocates in his fashion, though she has to ask during their wedding feast if he expects an execution instead of a bedding.

Consummation sees them alone for the first time. He has a body carved from rock, courtesy of darkspawn, bandits, and demons. Anora has attractive parents and an attentive handmaiden. With closer proximity to new her husband, she sees things she likes. His eyes are hazel, flowing between amber and forest green in different light. If she did not know better, she would ask if his mother was an elvish scullery maid.

The morning after, he takes her to the courtyard. She is curious. Alistair has lost the recalcitrance of yesterday, but now stares nervously ahead. As they near the doors, he finally speaks.

"I have something for you. I…I hope you like your wedding present."

Anora wonders why it requires a walk to the courtyard. Yesterday she presented him with a sword, a prized work of Navarran craftsmanship. He begged her leave to present her own the day after. His hesitant arm at her back guides her past the threshold. She still smells a tinge of smoke.

An elf stands at attention but Anora notices his more attractive companion. The gyrfalcon regards her with knife-sharp eyes. The hen's plumage is stark white with gray arrowheads along her back and wings, and her gleaming talons dig into the thick glove. She is beautiful, cold, and deadly. Anora can think of no finer praise

"Forgive me…if you don't like falconry I will find you—"

"I do not strike you as one who enjoys a boar hunt?"

His mouth tightens. Not anger, but nerves. He tries to reply, but she silences him with a quick hand. Anora must remember he does not know her well.

"I enjoy hunting, though I fear the surrounding forests are scarce now. Thank you Alistair. She is a wonderful gift."

He cannot quite hide his sigh of relief.

In truth it reminds her of home in Gwaren. She enjoyed hawking, though she had little time for it, and Cailan had little patience.

If it takes gifts rather than near-death experiences to thaw the ice, so be it.

At first, they get along better at night than during the day. She needs an heir, and the report she commissioned shows Grey Wardens indeed have few children. She resigns herself to the name he might call out when he spends himself inside her, if only to steel her mind against the pang she learned from her first marriage.

If he does ever say the Warden's name, Anora never hears it. For a boy raised in the Chantry, he is twice as sure of himself betwixt the sheets than atop a throne. Anora knows where this experience likely comes from, but does not feel bothered. Betimes, it gives her a perverse picture of the Warden she would never see otherwise. Though she gave her a dagger on her wedding day, Anora sometimes considers this her second, if unconventional, wedding gift.

She has planned to rule alone, with Alistair pleasing the populace, providing her an heir, and standing attractively beside her at court. He surprises her two months into their marriage when he asks her to explain an account book. When she acquiesces, somehow he retains most of what she says.

Soon Anora has a different reason to teach him the art of statecraft. Arl Eamon seems intent on serving as an adviser. Driving him from court would anger too much of the bannorn, so she deigns to teach Alistair to recognize a foolish idea instead. He will at least learn from her perspective.

* * *

They do not always agree, as she finds herself one evening when discussing the city elves.

"Send the palace guard to the Alienage?" His eyes are wide, glittering in the candlelight. "Why in Maker's name?"

Anora sighs. He has matured in the three years since their marriage, but still does not realize some problems have no perfect solution. The Alienage is rioting. The week before, humans beat Alienage's titular bann to death en route to the palace. Anora hanged the murderers but not before there was open fighting in the streets and a noble's mistress was dragged from her horse and assaulted. Erlina has attended their gatherings, and returned with too many whispers of revolt and vengeance. Anora takes out a piece of parchment and wets a quill.

"Attend to reality, Alistair." The quill scratches as she outlines the city walls and shades the river. "The Alienage is a small portion of Denerim."

"—And worth so much less? This is exactly what Arl Howe did." He has that stubborn tone to him, one that makes Anora want to jab his hand with her quill.

"Let me finish." She draws in the Alienage and separates the city into its quarters. Finally, she shows it to him. "My guards will disperse the riots and draw blood if the elves retaliate. There will be broken windows, damaged stores, and traumatized children. It will happen once."

"You speak like those are trivial."

She forces herself to patience. "Compared to what? Lynch mobs setting fire to houses and inadvertently destroying a quarter of the city? Banns sending their guards to abduct females?" He must know the Warden's background, for his eyes shift. "It will be a long time before tensions reach a boiling point again. My guard will ensure humans stay away from the Alienage." Her eyes narrow. "And if you ever compare me to Arl Howe again, husband, you can acquit yourself to a year of lonely nights."

His loyalty surpasses Cailan's. The Warden still has a hold on him; he will bed her when she returns to court. Beyond that he stays faithful. Anora knows her father would rail at him, but she is content. The arrangement allows her affections and does not interfere with her governing.

Alistair looks wounded, and she decides to turn it into a lesson.

"Arl Howe's actions against the Alienage were vindictive. He sent in elves infected with Blight, razed an orphanage, and invited slavers." Alistair will argue the last point, but Anora refuses to desist. "That is not justice."

She cannot explain all of her reasoning. It is a feeling, a twinge of foreboding. She does not laugh when the banns jape about the elves revolting. The possibility stands. Unlikely to start in Denerim, but no reason it cannot spread. She knows feelings can deceive, but if she cannot trust herself, she is lost.

Alistair looks doubtful, but he has never overruled her once her mind was set. It is late. Anora rises, stretching her stiff shoulders and hearing them crack.

"Come along, husband. Our next heir will not conceive itself."

Her parents had a way of resolving disagreements. She has learned from experience they were right.


	3. Falling Stars

Since the Warden first rode off with her Antivan Crow, Anora hopes she will find a new companion to steal all her time. Her wish has half come true. The Warden has several companions, and probably half a dozen more she does not bring to court, but none have occupied her entirely. Anora did not know if her husband realized at first. She will not tell him; that would make her too much the jealous harpy. And too, she does acknowledge her jealousy. It would be grand to have a stable of lovers, were her life consumed by adventure instead of governing.

* * *

Anora cannot look at Zevran and not think they have tumbled through all manner of barns and bedchambers. In truth she does not know why the Warden did not choose him from the start. Did not like attract like?

When the Warden left court to travel soon after the Blight, the elf accompanied her as a protector.  _Six months_ , Anora cautioned. The First Warden has named her Arlessa of Amaranthine, though Anora had already given her the position. Whatever the First Warden might think, the arling is a Fereldan holding, not a city-state like the Free Marches.

She sees their expressions when they return six months later. The Warden still limps, but not so badly as when she set out. The scar on her chin left by her father's shield has faded. The elf looks unchanged. Some might think their closeness akin to war stories and camaraderie, but Anora sees past the pretenses.

They sup together in the dining hall. Alistair sits beside her, tense as a rabbit, as if he expects Anora to renege on her word.

Does he think she plays these games? Anora sometimes uses her seeming physical weakness to her advantage, but not her feminine wiles. If it cannot be had with intelligence or intrigue, it is not worth having. To head off an awkward dance, Anora has already told Alistair he is free to bed the Warden during her stay, so long as he remains discreet. She and the Warden agreed long ago. He searches her eyes, trying to find a trap or emotional string she can later pull. He will find nothing he himself does not invent. At last, he takes her hand and leaves a long kiss. If she must ever hurt him thus, it will be the stark truth—the Warden spared Loghain so Anora would honor their accord of alliance, marriage, and tupping.

Finally, her husband consumes enough wine that he is taking the night at face value. The Warden has regaled them with anecdotes of their travels, but now he asks the question Anora has wondered since she arrived.

"You had six months—obviously you did not circumvent Thedas. Where exactly did you go?"

The Warden glances up through a lock of hair. Anora knows she hesitates.

"Tevinter."

There was an uneasy silence. Two elves, travelling in Tevinter…

"Before you ask, no, I was not absconded into slavery. Oddly I received nary a single 'knife-ear.' Well, I did but..." the Warden laughs, albeit nervously. Her companion takes over, but his normally dulcet tones are less honeyed.

"Ending the Blight makes you popular in Tevinter. A rather inebriated dockworker made a…creative comment involving knife-ears and flexibility, when suddenly a beautiful raven-haired mage set him on fire."

"Funny, yes," Alistair groans. "Incineration, hilarious."

"Yes, I suppose," Zevran says. "But he jumped into the water—though I doubt the mage took that into consideration. She chastised him for not recognizing the Hero of Ferelden and invited us to her manse. Ferocious creature, though I was confident if she planned to murder us she could do so without feeding us first. Her name, my dear?"

The Warden prods him with a fork. "Hadriana, you twit."

"Why of all the places in Thedas did you choose Tevinter, home of slaves, blood mages, and heretics?" Alistair interjects.

The Warden allows a crooked smile. "Buying slaves." She takes a long draught of wine as Alistair waits with wide eyes. "You forget, my people were foolish enough to trust Tevinter mages. I wanted to find those they had already shipped off."

"A needle in a haystack, surely," Anora says.

"I thought so, but a slave ship coming from Ferelden stood out in records. I tracked down my elder, Valendrian. He was not in as poor shape as I feared." From the way her eyes shift, Anora guesses her fears were behemothic. "I found two others. They all returned home."

"You would not think our Warden such a diplomat," Zevran pokes. "Until she reaffirms your suspicions by ripping open a new political conflict."

Alistair looks perturbed but the Warden scowls and elbows the Antivan. "There is no new political conflict in Tevinter. Old rivalries become ancient ones. Hadriana treated us well though, and insisted we meet her mentor." The Warden's eyes darken. "Creepy bastard. Friendly enough but…" The wine paints her memories in a softer light and she dissolves into giggles.

Zevran sighs and continues. "Her mentor was a magister, and possessed a beautiful, ferocious slave and bodyguard. He offered her a chance to spar with him, and when our Warden declined, he offered a more intimate encounter instead. To this day she blames the translator, yours truly, for not communicating the nuances of her reply.  _'Your ears show you as half-elven, ser, would you yourself offer me the same arrangement?'_  In truth, elven mages are treated little differently than human ones in Tevinter, but the…motif of her answer caused some manner of spectacle."

"Does this spectacle involve diplomatic concerns?" Alistair asks with a groan.

"I am a Grey Warden; we have no political concerns," the Warden says impetuously.

"I believe the magister had lost a business deal or a mistress that day, for in response to this flirtatious teasing, he ordered his slave to chastise her—"

"The elf had _lyrium_ branded on his skin," the Warden emphasizes. "I did not realize—"

"Pacing, my dear, we are getting there. Since we arrived, our daggers stayed coated in magebane—a diplomatic insurance. Our lady meant only to fend him off, nicking his forearm. Unfortunately the magebane had an unlikely reaction—the poor creature went into convulsions. Luckily, as much as defeating the Blight makes you popular in Tevinter, nothing compares to embarrassing a magister, at least to his rivals. We stayed in a far nicer manse while we tracked down the elves."

Alistair looks distressed. Perhaps he senses the Warden is not so flippant about her time in Tevinter as she appears. She has to know her jape possibly lead to the death of the slave. Sighing, the Warden makes an attempt to assuage them.

"The Archon won't be sending a strongly-worded letter. By fool's luck Zev and I put down a Qunari assassin. The invitations rolled in. The magister himself even left for Seheron the week after."

Anora wants to throttle her, or at least drag her into her study and throw a history book at her. The Imperium forgets its rights far more quickly than its wrongs. The Warden will soon be an arlessa, and cannot act on rash larks. An arling in joint possession of Ferelden and the Grey Wardens is already a political crisis in the making. Though she does not think the elf incapable, she feels something uneasy quicken in her stomach.

A feeling passes between the elves, and the Antivan drains his wine. "I am gracious for your hospitality, your Majesties, but I have a room reserved in the city. May I bid you good night?"

Anora dismisses him and soon herself. The wine has softened her feelings—she craves her warm bed more than a political discussion. Erlina soon joins her. With Alistair occupied, she offers her bed to her confidante. Gwaren was colder than Denerim. Growing up with no siblings, she and Erlina would often fall asleep after an hour of talking and be much too warm to brave the cold halls.

The elf unbinds her hair, Anora's eyes closing at the relaxing touch. Alistair is sweet when he undoes her hair, but he seems as confused by her pins and tresses as Orlesian diplomacy.

To her surprise, Alistair and the Warden do nothing more than talk late into the night. Some wounds still need healing, she assumes. Night has just taken the first gray of pre-dawn when Alistair climbs into bed. She feels him pause when he notices the elf, but he is too tired and tender to order her out.

"Will there be any repercussions with Tevinter?" he whispers, half-hoping she is awake.

The question makes her smile. Six months ago she would never imagine her husband going to sleep with politics on his mind.

"A lesson, husband," she says, voice thick with sleep. "She is a Warden. If someone else can be blamed in a situation where you carry no fault, stay out of it."

* * *

Zevran did not accompany her to Amaranthine though. Anora learns this by accident.

She takes the short way out of the palace, craving a morning ride. The forest may be thin with game, but the ground remains sound enough. The queen does not expect to hear two voices coming from a little-used room.

_"My dear, I'm afraid I have delayed my own task long enough."_

The Warden's voice is tight…and breathy.

_"I would come with you if I could. I don't know the first damn thing about running an arling."_

_"You did not know the first damn thing about being a Grey Warden and you managed that well enough. My dear, I would not leave your side if I thought you in danger. You will have enough problems in Amaranthine without Crows sneaking in."_

Her reply cuts off almost before it begins; Anora can guess why. She hurries on. She can advise the Warden if need be. To secure the support of the populace, she might consider a marriage. And Vigil's Keep—Arl Howe was too obsessed with privacy to utilize its economic capabilities. With more merchants the Warden can repair the walls and create a trading hub, away from the politics of the city. She will bring this up.

Anora knows the elf has since been connected with the deaths of several high-ranking Antivan Crows.

* * *

Anora meets the Warden's next companion when she orders her to court. Amaranthine is a razed ruin now, by the Warden's own hand. Alistair heard she was badly injured in the siege of Vigil's Keep and wanted to blow his horse out in a mad rush to reach the arling. Anora barely talked him out of it. The roads crawled with darkspawn and her belly carried no heir.

Though at that she has wondered. Lately food has turned her stomach and she has had to fight to stay awake during petitions. Perhaps a mild sickness; she dares not hope.

The Warden arrives with a single companion—a blond mage, judging by his robes. Anora knows they are intimate the moment he helps her from her horse, his hands delicate around her waist. She seems about to lean into him for the briefest moment before she straightens her shoulders and stands square.

She kneels, eyes downcast. Anora feels her stomach sinking. She will not like this talk. Still, better to lance the wound than let it fester.

"Rise, Warden," the queen states. "The king believed you were a day away and is still en route from Redcliffe. Allow me to see receive you in my study, with your companion if you desire."

Alistair believed; Anora did nothing to dissuade him. As uneasy as she feels, she bears little anger. What she wants is the truth. Her agents' missives are a pandemonium of witchcraft, fantasy, and dismal circumstances. Alistair has acquired a grasp of statecraft, a year into their marriage, but lets his emotions entangle his judgment. She will spare him the conflict where the Warden is concerned.

"As you will, your Majesty." The Warden grimaces as she rises, favoring her shoulder.

Anora feels worse from her unusual formality.

* * *

Two hours later, as preposterous as a truth is, it is still the truth. The Warden has not lied.

"I am glad Alistair is not here," Anora says. "He will not understand your reasoning for allowing a self-possessed darkspawn to live.  _I_ do not."

The Warden nods. "Your Majesty, the battle for Vigil's Keep was a desperate one. I was…wounded." Her voice is bitter.

"Impaled, to be medically precise," her companion cuts in. Anora dislikes his manners, but sees his care for the Warden. "A broken arm, cracked collar-bone, and a sword through her clavicle. If you ever see the Templars, you should mention their witchhunt for me could have cost the Hero of Ferelden her life."

"Enough, Anders," the Warden says. "Aye, it was embarrassing, if sweetened a bit by victory. Anders healed me as best he could, but we had little time to track the Mother to her lair. I was presumptuous of my ability to fight through an injury. The Architect offered aid, and a strange…perspective."

Anora sighs to herself. Bow to the lesser evil to prevent the greater. Strange how such a course forces one to keep bowing, until he destroys all he tried to save. She bridles her pessimism as best she can; Anora knows little of darkspawn. The dwarves have said the Deep Roads remain calmer, despite diminishing numbers of the monsters above ground. She hardly believes the stories the Chantry tells of good and evil. To assume darkspawn will always be a mindless force would circumvent study.

"You do know burning your own city will ruin your economy and embitter the nobles toward you?" She keeps her voice cool and measured.

The Warden nods, her eyes stormy. "I should be thanking Andraste my vassals did not burn me for saving their arling. Amaranthine was already lost; darkspawn swarmed within the gates, and the people died of their sickness. Vigil's Keep stood at full strength and was packed tight with smallfolk." She inclines her chin. "Did I make the right choice?"

Anora sees the weak twist to her mouth. She is used to making snap decisions, bearing the hurt to win the battle. The queen knows she still hurts. Her leaning against Anders came from fatigue, not stolen affection, though she still thinks they are lovers.

"You made a choice. If you can bear the consequences, then it was the right one."

The Warden sits back, eyes closing the briefest moment. Anora cannot offer her absolution, but she can assure the Warden she does not need it.

"I brought in merchants to Vigil's Keep and safeguarded the Pilgrim's Path," she says. "We've found granite and silverite. The arling will not be penniless."

Anora is pleased at her followed advice. She feels a pang of sympathy for the Warden. The girl cannot be more than three and twenty, if that. The First Warden—all of Ferelden—needs her to be a hero. It is not a mantle she can shrug off.

A servant arrives with trays of steaming food—they requested dinner in private, to better catch up without the chatter of the palace. Anora finds she has no appetite, pushing the seared venison around with a fork.

"You need to eat, your Majesty," the mage says.

Anora prepares an annoyed retort, but something in his tone makes her pause. The Warden too is looking on in interest. Anders seems aware of his awkward request.

"I only meant, you're eating for two. Well, one and one-tenth thereabouts, but still."

"What are you saying, mage? You are not my doctor."

His eyes dance in the dim light when he realizes he is the first to notice. " _Doctors_. So draconian and old-fashioned. I am a spirit healer; I work with life force. Your Majesty, you are with child."

* * *

"Grey Wardens do have some perks." Anders bites into a roll, eyes merry. "Release from slavery is one of them."

Alistair arrived that afternoon, flustered to see the Warden reached Denerim before him. Anora gave him her opinion of Amaranthine. He was placated for the moment, and distracted more by the Warden than her first six months as Arlessa. When she greets him in the main hall, kneeling like the perfect courtier, he drags her up in an embrace. It is touching rather than romantic, the way two friends may greet each other when they learn they have both survived the war.

They sit in the dining hall now, supping on honeyed capon and a spread of vegetables. The Blight had forced them to import more food from afar. Costly, but she was acquiring new tastes. Pistachios from Antiva, artichokes from Tevinter—eating for one and one-tenth would be a more enjoyable endeavor.

Alistair will learn of her condition after the Warden has left for Amaranthine. It does not sway her happiness though, or her fierce glee. For years she bit her tongue when the arls' bored daughters wondered if she was barren. It would not do for a queen to point out they had no bastards in their bellies.

The king, she can tell, is surprised at the Warden's choice of companion. He still tries to be friendly.

"To my horribly unmagical knowledge, the Ferelden Circle is better than any in the Marches. Particularly Kirkwall—there's apparently a Knight-Commander even Gregoir finds intolerable."

Anders' mouth still smiles. His eyes do not. "I guess I escaped seven times because I was inexcusably picky."

Anora senses the Warden's annoyance and grants her a reprieve. "I know you are still on the mend, but your limp is completely gone. Did it heal on it its own?" She doubts it did, but it allows the Warden to smile and change the subject.

"Nay, Anders." She gives his arm a friendly squeeze, and Anora catches the half-beat it rests there too long. "There was a scrap of metal still stuck in my leg, and something fucked up in the sacra…sacri—"

"Sacroiliac joint," Anders interjects. "You failed to mention that the Archdemon dropped you ten feet."

"My hip wasn't broken and I was in armor," she nips back.

Anora sighs to herself. She knows where the sacroiliac joint is, and can only imagine how they discovered the source of the Warden's pain. Not that she begrudges the Warden a lover when she is away.

Alistair takes her hand—he senses her moods better now, but happily he still fails to read her mind. She wonders if he suspects the Warden has new bedmates. How could he not? But sometimes his naivety still surprises her.

Anora feels his palpable relief the Warden has returned, scarred but healthy. She sees the longing, the memories, each refracting in his eyes like a hundred missed moments. She does not begrudge him this. Her arrangement still stands, still earns his shining eyes and tender embrace when she reminds him.

Erlina shares her bed tonight and they are not disturbed. Her confidante knows her too well to pick and scratch at her feelings.

"That mage is handsome, no?"

Anora grins. "Normally I would think it odd, but the earring is charming."

"And that precious kitten!" Erlina sits up, eyes mischievous. "He may be lonely tonight. We will not be disturbed, if you think your bed is still too cold."

Perhaps the thought should shame her, had Anora not outgrown such nonsense.

"No," she sighs. She does consider it. She is pregnant now; there would be no need to procure a tonic, or demand a messy maneuvering. "I do not have the luxury of such a habit."

The mage does stay in her thoughts, not for his charm, but his sadness. The Warden must know the wounded creature he is, just below the wit and charm. Escaping the Circle seven times? Alistair did not like talking about the Warden's adventure when the mages rebelled. It made her wonder what drove them to such lengths. Doubtless they saw it as imprisonment, but to be moved to slaughter…the common explanation was demons, but Anora did not doubt the desperation and cruelty of men, even if demons preyed on such thoughts.

Despite the Templars' assurance such an event would never happen again, Anora doubs their confidence. Anything can happen again. The uneasy feeling stirs in her belly as she thinks of that isolated tower.

She leaves the bed, pulls on a robe, and checks that she still looked presentable. This is unconventional of a queen, perhaps, but so are many things about her.

"Erlina, find Anders. Do not let him have the wrong idea. I want to ask him about the Circle."

* * *

The Warden departs, but not for Amaranthine. Anora breaks her fast in her study, leafing through correspondence she has no desire to read. The voices travel down the hall.

_"No, Anders, I need you back at the Keep."_

His voice is hushed, bordering on desperate.  _"You know they don't like me, apart from Justice. They don't trust mages."_

_"Velanna is a mage."_

_"Velanna does not care, nor does she like anyone apart from you and the Howe."_

_"I shall miss you, but the Keep needs you to train the new mages. Most learn how to throw a fireball and think they are Darinius reborn. We need healers."_

A rustling sound and a sigh. Anora is curious, despite her nobler self. She glances out the doorway. Instead of a lurid interlude, the mage looks grieved. His forehead lowers to the Warden's, hands clasping her forearms. Anora knows the elf's stances well enough to see she is shifting with impatience.

"I would not send you back if I thought you in danger," she finishes, breaking the embrace.

Later, Anora takes a steadying breath when she hears, from the groom of all people, they have gained a new horse. Anders will return to Amaranthine by ship. The Warden…

"I need to go to Orzammar," she says, a sour lilt to her words. "Nathaniel is a fine seneschal."

"Warden," Anora says, low and cold, "What in Orzammar is more important than your arling?"

The Warden's hands shift on the horse's bridle. The queen does not know if Alistair knows of her plan, or if he would even understand why it would be a ridiculous idea.  _She abandons her duty?_

"The Architect," she says. "I need to know if there is another like him—it—whatever. I've heard a name but can't remember where or what." She looks distraught, and the courser begins to snort above her wrist. "Have you heard the name Corypheus?"

Anora has not. "You have a responsibility to your people—"

The Warden mounts her horse, looking even smaller atop the swarthy mare.

"I have a responsibility to the Grey Wardens, and to Ferelden," she states. "Am I a Warden or an arlessa first? Maker if I know. I do know that if there is another creature in Thedas like the Mother, I need to kill it. Something screams to me I should know the name Corypheus and I don't. I want to ask the Shaperate."

Though she clearly tries to sway her with oration, Anora does not sense she is trying to lie. She does suspect she is partly lying to herself. She has no desire to return to Vigil's Keep, going in person when a letter would suffice. Seeing the proud set of her jaw, the wild fire in her eyes, Anora desists in convincing her otherwise.

"Give me your word you will return to Vigil's Keep."

"I will return."

Anora knows she should add more facets to her word, less freedom. She supposes she does not want to be the one to who the Warden breaks her word. So she nods, and offers a last farewell.

"I know not this name, but Corypheus sounds vaguely Arcanum. If you made any contacts in Tevinter—ones whose slaves you did not assault—I would write them. I also plan to visit the Circle of Magi soon. I will ask them to consult their library."

A marred smile, notched by a scar. The Warden flees.


	4. Secrets and Circles

As queen, Anora spends several moments every day laughing at rumors. Some say she courts the Orlesians and the Qunari, or the Blight was an ingenious scheme of the Black Divine. Since the babe has swelled within her, rumors of her sterility have fallen away. Only to trade for a rumor she has a mage as a consort—she would blame Erlina if she were not so amused.

One rumor still sets her teeth on edge. The Warden and her father. Nauseating, her first thought, Preposterous, her second. But so is an Alienage-born elf becoming the Hero of Ferelden. After the Landsmeet, the Warden claimed she had two places to go before meeting the darkspawn horde. Anora would have castigated her, but for the army needing weeks to supply and mobilize. With treason and scant coins no longer an issue, they can afford to ride instead of walk.

Anora has learned since then the Warden liberated Soldier's Peak from demonic forces, reasoning that if they ended in the Archdemon's belly, other Wardens could benefit from a stronghold. She also returned to Ostagar, finding King Maric's sword and declaring it a relic-talisman.

When her father departed with the Warden, he was shooting scowls at her back. The elf looked ready to castrate an ogre. Anora suspects she had gone to Alistair and the meeting did not go as desired.

After they returned from Soldier's Peak, Anora saw vitriol had warmed to respect. Her father carried King Maric's sword, no doubt intended for Alistair. No doubt he and the Warden both considered the notion of a relic to be foolish, but the Warden has a sense for riling a crowd.

The rumor has its birth the night before the march to Denerim. A servant saw Loghain and the Warden walk to her bedchamber. Erlina saw it too, but claimed there was as much passion in them as a week-old tankard of ale. Odd, nevertheless.

Then they defeated the Archdemon and both lived through it. Anora only knows this unusual because the Grey Wardens practically beat down the palace gate asking questions.

When Anora asks herself if there is something there, she cannot reach a verdict. The line between friendship and love is a blurred one.

The true rumor-crafter, however unintentional, was an artist. A painting came from that battle, one that Anora, Alistair, Loghain, and the Warden agree is absolutely awful. Though the implication may be wrong, its origin is not.

* * *

_Her guards cry at her to get back, but Anora refuses. Her betrothed has bloodied his sword; she can walk through a battlefield recently vacated by fleeing darkspawn. Denerim burns; she smells both wood and flesh. Smoke streaks from atop Fort Drakon. Her guards resign themselves as her vanguard._

_They arrive at Fort Drakon along with the Warden's other companions. They have all survived, though the Qunari carries the Warden's mabari, its hind leg twisted unnaturally. As they approach the battered-down doors, four figures walk over the demolished threshold, followed by a ragged group of wounded mages._

_The first is the apostate, her eyes stormy and her gait limping. The second is the Antivan elf, leathers drenched in blood. The last is Loghain, the Warden in his arms. Her head lolls back, a gash across her forehead still streaming. The kohl lining her eyes to deflect the sun now smears across her cheeks. Her leg is the worst—the metal pierced and jagged, as if a dragon bit straight through the plate and into the bone. A hasty bandage has slipped loose from too much blood._

_Anora's heart clenches when she thinks the Warden is dead, until Loghain calls to the white-haired mage standing close. He lays the Warden on the stone landing. Wynne—Anora remembers her name now—darts forward, wondrously deft for an elderly woman who has just seen combat._

_"What happened to her leg?" The mage's voice is clinically detached._

_As if it needed no explanation, Loghain scowls. "She wanted to get closer to its eyes."_

* * *

The last time she sees him is before his assignment to Orlais. Though the order came from Weisshaupt, Anora feels Alistair's influence. She curses the day she taught him the art of persuasive writing. Alistair will always hate him, both for existing and having the Warden's respect.

"It is time those painted fools remember why hounds fill their nightmares," Loghain muses, taking the assignment better than she would have guessed.

"Will it take you so long to reach Orlais?" she asks.

"No, but I will stop in Amaranthine to check on the Warden."

Sometimes, Anora wishes she could remove her ears whenever she wants.

To her later regret, Anora does not act her most respectable. It begins well enough when she ambushes her husband in their bedchamber and they rage for half an hour. Until Alistair asks why Loghain leaves so early.

"To visit the Warden of course," she bites back.

Alistair does not dignify her with a response but her arrow has struck when he smashes the door behind him. He laughs at rumors too, but there is always one that sets his teeth on edge. He cannot help but remember the day she returned from Ostagar and Soldier's Peak, Maric's sword at Loghain's back. The sword the Warden would have given him, had he not stormed from the hall.

As marital fights go, Anora considers it a simple affair. They maintain a stony silence for a week, he presents her with a rune-carved ebony bow, and they find their understanding in the bedchamber where the fight began. Alistair has now seen the temper she rarely shows, and she falls asleep thinking he will think carefully about going behind her back again.

* * *

Loghain returns for a feast day, riding in on a gray horse that could only be Orlesian. A gift, he claims, followed by the assessment that Orlais' horses are by far the smarter half of their chevaliers.

Her child has started to show, and Anora finds herself more uncomfortable by the day. When her father suggests hawking, she jumps at the chance. Before long she will be waddling; for now, she enjoys being in breeches instead of a dress.

They have not spoken in person for months. For a short while, she can pretend things are exactly the same as they were before Ostagar. Anora trudges through the field, her father beside her. The grass crunches around them, still brittle from the darkspawn. They walk alone. She is not an Orlesian, who think a walk through the market demands a vanguard.

"I was surprised to be with child," Anora says, attempting to phrase her thoughts in a way that does not make her father look nauseous. "Grey Wardens are barely fertile. I thought I would be free longer."

Loghain smirks, not missing the salt in her happy occurrence. He has funded all her girlish phases—ribbons, gowns, shoes, ceremonial weaponry—to know she preens between her armoire and mirror. Anora finds the physical changes of pregnancy a dismal necessity.

"I always thought your husband's masculinity a greater problem than being a Grey Warden. If anything, the so-called Taint increases vitality."

He looks less tired, his perpetual state during the Blight. His eyes do look older though, likely from heavier regrets with every passing year.

"How do you know?" she asks slyly. "Is there a little brother I know nothing about?"

Loghain's eyes snap to hers so fast she wonders for a moment if it is true—but Anora also hears the bells, a sign Adalla has caught something.

He scouts for the raptor before replying. "I know of a Grey Warden who birthed a child."

Anora is curious as they search for the gyrfalcon, finally spotting her near a copse. As they walk, she pries the story out of him.

"It was a secret, but as the one who told me is dead, I feel no reason to keep it." A trace of bitterness—it must involve King Maric. "Have you known who your boy's mother was?"

"A maid?" But as she says it she knows it must be false.

She feeds Adalla a scrap of meat and coaxes her back onto her gauntlet, then into the sky for more prey. The dead quail she adds to a satchel. Game is still thin; she will not waste it on sport.

"Maric was infatuated with a Warden for a brief time. If you want a match the demons dreamed up, it was her. An Orlesian Grey Warden, an elf, and a mage. The affair whelped your husband. I care not if he knows, but I imagine he is too sensitive to leave it alone."

Implying there is still something to leave alone, Anora knows. "She still lives?"

Loghain shrugs. "She left the Grey Wardens to join a Circle, somewhere. She has some manner of rank."

Alistair does not need to know this, at least not now. She will not have him broach the subject of her child being a mage, just as she will not ask if the Taint poses any dangers. Her mind has been occupied with magic as of late, with no one to talk to.

"Father, what are your thoughts on the Circle mages?"

"I don't care enough to have a  _strong_  opinion. You can wrap a sword in silk to keep it from cutting but it is of little use when the wolves come. It's an arrogant judgment to insist they will destroy a world instead of save it. Maric ran afoul of magic, but other times it brought him a measure of happiness." His eyes search hers. "I doubt you need concern yourself with the grandmother's legacy."

It is reassuring, in her father's laconic way. She does not see the shame of bearing a mage as some women do. Her concern rises because this child will be her only heir. Though she scoured her records, she cannot find any example of a Warden bearing more than one child.

Beyond her belly, the mages need attention. She hears rumors of growing discontent, of increasing friction between mages, Chantry, and Templars. Acquiring the Chantry's perspective is easy. Alistair can give her perspective of the Templars. The mages, however, she had not spoken to before Anders and Wynne. The older mage's account was more neutral and measured. Anders' was not.

* * *

 _"I had a friend at the Circle, a girl from Highever, who attracted a cocksure brute from the kitchens. She was just defending herself when she froze his hands. Easily cured, but the fool plunged them in hot water and lost three fingers. The Templars who found them refused to hear her side because they brand us as seducers. They would refrain from reporting it to the Knight-Commander if she provided…compensation_. _"_

_Anora affects a mildly shocked expression. Perhaps she has grown too cold over the years, but she feels disturbed rather than horrified. She fears what she cannot understand. To see cruelty against the defenseless and the dreaded is far too common. He goes on to speak of more abuses, before claiming the Fereldan Circle, by all accounts, was kinder than many. Anora thanks him for his candor and wishes him more freedom as a Warden._

_She has spoken to banns with mages in their family and finds few who meet her views. Most pretend their kin does not exist. A few, when plied with the correct words, would prefer the towers razed to the ground—some to kill the mages, some to unleash them._

_One does not loose a chained dog, not when the dog has been chained instead of trained and gentled. Anora is not a crusader. She takes the part of a helmsman, cursing her crew for not seeing the looming storm. If it is all feelings she will be grateful, but the queen suspects they are not._

* * *

Her child comes after hours of battle. At its cry she smiles. First because it sounds like a healthy cry, and second because it is gone from her body. No more paralyzing back aches, arbitrary nausea, or hour-apart visits to the privy. Her hair sticks to her face and her breath comes in shaking gasps.

The midwife wipes the babe clean and hands her to the spirit healer. Anora raised a few eyebrows when she requested both goodwife and mage. She scoffs at their reluctance. Magic can stop bleeding far better than a doctor. She will not die in childbirth. Pregnancy has made her temperamental—a bann tried to delicately imply the chance for blood magic. Anora was not delicate when she declared mind control during labor would be a blessed mercy.

Someone throws a fresh sheet over her. Anora almost demands it removed—her face is hot, drenched—but before she can complain she realizes she is cold.

Her spirit healer told her earlier she would check the babe for any signs of sickness. The elder mage's hands trace over the infant. Anora sees her smile flicker and her fingers tense as if touching hot metal. The shadow passes in a moment.

"What is wrong?" Anora croaks.

The mage smiles. "The child is perfectly healthy, your Majesty. Robust for her age, all vitals strong."

 _Half-lie_ , Anora wants to snap. Her truth is too deliberate. But even the queen's mind quiets when the babe settles in her arms. A wrinkled, blotchy creation, but she will be beautiful soon.

Alistair enters first, all halting congratulations and nervous adoration. He thinks his mother died in childbirth and has prayed and begged his wife will not follow. She knows her rush of joy is alchemical, but she cannot help but feel she loves him then.

Her husband eventually departs and her father enters. They have remained in the same room together for hours and neither is bleeding. Anora feels loved.


	5. Change or Chance

Anora crosses Lake Calenhad with Erlina, her guards left behind at the nearby tavern. She has promises to keep.

The Templars and mages bow, though she offers her kindest smile and begs them to rise.

"The King, the Hero of Ferelden, and I have utmost gratitude to the Circle for your aid against the Blight. My friend the Warden says she would not have killed the Archdemon without your magic." She uses the word deliberately, to dissuade the notion they were fodder. "Those who stood atop Fort Drakon, please reveal yourselves."

Eight rise, men and women, humans and elves, who all look shy of thirty. Anora knows more set out from the Circle, and thanks them for their sacrifice. She then asks the Circle to carry on, but speaks with the eight mages in private.

"Good sers, there is no need." She smiles at the Templars who stand guard over the small room she has chosen for the interview. "They marched with the Fereldan army and fought alongside the Warden. I trust them with my life."

She feels their frowns through their helmets, but these particular Templars know deference to their queen. Anora knows not all hold her above the Chantry. After they have clanked out into the halls, she turns to her eight sorcerers. Erlina has stolen away to the commons to speak to others.

Anora lets her orator's smile fade to an easy grin. "Tell me of your lives here."

At first they hesitate, answering with staid responses fed to them since they were children. She knows Cailan visited the Circle once, and spoke to her as if it were a university. She suspected different then, she cares now.

Her interview with Anders proves invaluable. Almost all remember the incidents she mentions. It takes more words and overt implications for them to offer names, but Anora has dealt with the bannorn, who guard their secrets like misers. In the end, half ask if she can send a correspondence to the Warden. They desire conscription.

Anora spends the night in the tower and makes it a point to walk through the commons, speaking and smiling and learning. She stops by the library, expressing her wonder and summoning a librarian. He is an elf, red-haired and doe-eyed, and one of the eight she interviewed. Anora keeps her word.

"Have you heard of the name Corypheus?"

The mage does not, though he vows to collect several Imperial tomes and read them all through the night. She smiles in gratitude, but it is difficult to maintain when she asks her next question.

"What of magical legacies?"

"Pardon, your Majesty?"

She clasps her hands, softens her eyes. "A curiosity. If one's grandparent or parent is a mage, how likely is it for the children to be as well?"

He tries to hide it but she sees the alarm and suspicion. He paints over them with a regretful grin. "Apologies, your Majesty. The gift is random. The blood increases the chance, but many mages such as myself have no magic in our bloodlines."

Anora understands his concern. If Templars attempted to make an equation out of children...she dislikes where that would go. She deliberates in her mind if her curiosity will be sated on conjecture from a dishonest answer. It will not be. The Warden would feel likewise.

She holds out a hand of peace, and lowers her voice so he must lean to hear. "May I swear you to secrecy for the question I will ask? Give me your word our discussion ends at Corypheus."

He nods, and Anora betrays her instincts.

"My daughter's grandmother is a mage. How likely is it she has the same gift?"

He blinks in surprise, like as not from her calling magic a gift as her confession. His dark eyes deliberate, fingers linking as he thinks.

"Please, your Majesty, believe me when I say I am unsure. There have been conjectures but the Chantry has a hand in magical research. If you want my anecdotal guess…it is unlikely. It is rarer for the trait to appear in the grandchild than the child or great-grandchild. In truth, there is no way to know unless it manifests, typically between ages nine and fourteen."

"Then I have one last question. Can a mage—a spirit healer, for instance—detect magic in an infant?"

There is a flash of sympathy in his gaze. Anora knows she has given too much away but there is no retracting it now.

"Some  _believe_  they can sense it. The Chantry does not like this fact being known, but spirit healers receive their gifts from spirits in the Fade.  _Benevolent_  spirits, I assure you. It calls to reason there are stronger spirits than others."

He purposely does not compare the strength of spirits to the differences between demons.

"Thank you, ser," Anora says. "Please let me know if you find anything of Corypheus. The Knight-Commander will know you are free to send me anything you discover."

Anora takes her leave, before he can ask more questions. Her final audience is with Knight-Commander Gregoir and First Enchanter Irving. She greets them in the Knight-Commander's office, her cool smile once more in place, her doubts tucked away in shadow.

"I do not speak idly when I say I am grateful for your assistance during the Blight. I was there at Fort Drakon when your mages walked out. They bled for their country and I will repay that."

"It was duty and need, your Majesty," Gregoir says. His instincts have been honed over the decades; she hears the wariness.

"I will gift the Ferelden Circle with the means to repair the tower," she answers, pausing for effect. "But I must know the Circle is secure."

Annoyance flashes in the Knight-Commander's eyes. "The incident during the Blight will not happen again. If I may delicately remind you, outside forces contributed to the rebellion."

Anora wants to laugh at his nerve, at the same time she wants to reply his vassalage to the Chantry is clear. She does neither, content with her reply.

"I have perfect confidence in the Circle's security against outside forces. I refer to those inside." She presents him with a list, and allows her smile to take a colder edge. "I want these Templars reassigned. Each name has multiple accusations of rape, violence, or blackmail."

A small breath from the First Enchanter. The Knight-Commander blanches, though from fury or shock she does not know.

"Majesty," he says, tone plated in steel. "May I remind you Templars are pledged to protect their charges. Any acts of discipline are to prevent occurrences like the one for which the Warden was forced to intervene. May I also remind you the Templars and Circle are extensions of the Chantry, not the Crown."

Anora smiles, sweet as summer. "But as you have reminded me, it is my hereditarial fault the tower is in ruins. Has the Chantry offered to mend that mistake? May I also remind you my pledge to the Circle hinges on it being safe for its inhabitants. Also, I want word sent to both Weisshaupt and Amaranthine whenever a mage expresses interest in joining the Grey Wardens. Their numbers in Ferelden are too-few and darkspawn still roam the land."

Gold will always be the world's canniest diplomat. She knows some will call her a fool for spending resources here. If in the years to come it proves a mistake, she will accept it. But Anora does not think so.

* * *

The Warden does return to Amaranthine, after arriving in Denerim that morning. Her trip to Orzammar took several detours—Anora is well aware her word did not specify when she had to return. The courier, however, sends her rushing off like responsibility never could.

Anora receives many letters for the Warden. Copies surely arrive in Amaranthine too, but Weisshaupt has begun to realize her duties as an arlessa often take her abroad.

The elf reads this particular correspondence in Anora's study, her eyes darting over the script.

_"Damn it!"_

She crumples the parchment and bolts from the room. By afternoon, she races from the palace. Anora feels no guilt now that the letter lies unsealed on the floor.

 _Ah._  The queen understands her rage now.

The mage Anders has left the Wardens, scant months after his return from Denerim the departure of Justice, a Warden ally. The writer, Nathaniel Howe, makes admirable use of his noble education in lacing the script with accusations of her absence. The queen sends her own letter to the Howe, writing with friendship and a desire to put matters of blood behind them. If he has ruled the Amaranthine in all but name, she wants his assessment. Doubtless he blames her father for setting his on the course to ruin, but Anora will settle for cold correspondence.

At least, Anora surmises, the Warden will stay in her arling.

* * *

She does not. The elf returns to Denerim almost three months later, fatigue and disgust dripping off her every move.

The Warden is a better leader than ruler. Anora gathers from her agents that she makes rapid decisions with little care for the long-term. Like burning Amaranthine, though she explained herself well afterward. And now, a failed coup, which Anora waits for the Warden to mention. Her father described her once:  _"A talented tactician, a terrible strategist."_

"I should have brought him with me," she whines the morning after her return as they break their fast on Anora's balcony. "His only friend was Justice, and Justice disappeared just after he returned, no word or anything."

Anora had seen the Warden in the courtyard directly below and felt compelled to invite her up. She will give her until late morning to mention what other events occurred at Vigil's Keep.

"Are not Grey Wardens supposed to put aside their rivalries for the good of Thedas?" Anora asks, nibbling at a strip of bacon.

The Warden snorts, her neck tilted away and looking over the balcony. There was nothing there to catch her attention.

"Without a Blight to distract everyone?" Her voice catches. Anora looks closer and sees a glitter at the corner of her eyes. "They took away his…" Suddenly the tears stream down her face, and she sniffs with alarming commonness.

Before Anora can think, she's leaning over the Warden, the harsh rawhide woman now tearing up like a child with skinned knees. The queen dabs at her face with a handkerchief, no mothering words in her—her daughter hoards the few she has—but curious concern. When the Warden next speaks, she has mastered herself.

"They took away his  _cat_. I  _gave_  it to him. Now he's off somewhere. In Amaranthine the Templars knows he's a Warden. Now, on his own? Getting dragged back to a Circle would  _kill_ him, if he's not made Tranquil or executed first."

"I can have some of my people look for him," Anora says. She has agents everywhere, or at the very least emigrated Fereldens who enjoy an extra bit of coin.

The Warden assents, eyes dry now, cheeks clinging to their flush. Anora understands why the mage's disappearance wounds her.  _Why not come to you, my dear Warden, even after you forced him away?_  But she does not know this mage and does not make a guess, beyond a wish to leave the Wardens altogether, the way Alistair had.

"I take it Anders was your lover?" she asks gently.

The Warden laughs, sad and short. "Not really. A few times, after our blood was up from a scrape. Those Circle mages teach each other a hell of a lot more than magic." More small, sorrowful giggles. "There are people who have something underneath that you just don't want to touch. You hope it stays below, but that's all."

Anora knows. She saw it the night she spoke to the mage. In truth, it was what she saw more than what she heard that convinced her to go to the Circle—a lattice-work of cracks just beneath the wit and charm. She has never seen a hurt without anger festering alongside. Surely he cannot be alone.

The elf's eyes met Anora's again, her smile once again crooked. "I sound like a slattern, don't I?"

In truth, it hardly affects the Warden's character in her eyes. It is amusing to live vicariously. "I merely wonder how your elders ever found you a husband."

She earns a laugh, this time one of real amusement. "He came from Highever."

"Will you return to Amaranthine?"

Her eyes lower. "Has Nathaniel run it into the ground?"

"No," Anora must assent. "The taxes are paid, the city is slowly being rebuilt. Why did you leave?"

"The conspiracy?" The Warden looks shocked she has not heard. Of course she has. At the queen's cool stare, she explains. "That bitch Bann Esmerelle was just waiting for my return so she could cut my ears off. Some bastards attack me and a dozen recruits in the field while others attacked the Keep. Why do they _do_  things like this? They always die." Her eyes are angry, hard, mouth set in a grim smile. "I fought my way in. I wanted to cut her throat ear to ear but Nathaniel said she had to live for a trial, so I just…incapacitated her." Anora's eyebrows quirk in curiosity. The Warden has a streak of bloodlust; she should have been born Chasind. "She needed hands, not fingers, to sign a confession…I had a mage ensure she did not bleed to death."

Blessed be the Howe then—Anora did not think she would ever say that. The Warden's sense of justice, when not guided by pragmatism, could be somewhat draconian. To hear Alistair talk of it, she had left the Brecilian Forest soaked in blood.

"Nathaniel and I…discussed things afterward." She smiles, glances back in time. Anora can guess she thinks of the Howe, easily the most handsome of his line. "The smallfolk like what I stand for. The banns hate me, but like a happy populace they do not have to cajole. The best recourse, we agreed, was if I appear a few times a year. He can manage affairs in the time between. I barely know a quarter of the people there anymore."

Anora sighs to herself. "Has Weisshaupt added word to this arrangement?"

The Warden shrugs. "My treasurer spies for them. If they wish words, they can find me."

The Howe said much the same in the letter now on Anora's desk. He defends the Warden, whatever his private grievances. Anora does not know if he told the Warden of the four conspirators who escaped. He has assured the queen his best sergeant now chases them to Kirkwall, a city where the Wardens have no influence.

A part of her wishes to grab the girl and shake her until she remembers who she is. The Warden is a symbol, and symbols cannot flee. Perhaps she sees herself as a relic, past her day and shelved until she is needed again. Much like King Maric's sword. As much as he treasures it, her father left it in the armory, preferring another blade the Warden gifted him. A strange, striking thing he claims was crafted from star rock.

Anora knows why the Warden pushed the mage away. If she had the late Arl Howe's cowardly bloodthirst, she would not bother with knives and brands. Locking one up with an unbreakable mirror would break a man just as well. She would snap at Alistair for once dropping all responsibility on one so young, but that it is pointless. She knows now she overestimated her age. Her husband mentioned once Alienage elves marry around seventeen, in hopes they've developed a trade. The Warden mentioned she left for Ostagar on her wedding day.

But sympathy has a small place in Anora's life. Every refused sacrifice implies weakness—she cannot shrug off the mantle under which she was raised. Though the Warden speaks of the conspiracy with anger, Anora knows she bleeds. She will remind her of her duties, but the Warden can heal for now.

"Have you learned anything from the Shaperate?"

The Warden picks at a cold egg. "No. Instead, I was forced to hear the theory of an ogre emissary."

Anora hesitates. She can add kindling to the elf's fixation, or let her find some new way to raise hell. At last, she goes to her dresser and removes a sheet of parchment.

"I did inquire at the Circle. Their librarian has sent me his findings. Scant, I'm afraid."

The Warden's face still brightens. The gleam of happiness or obsession, Anora does not wish to guess. She sets to reading them.

"I heard a rumor the queen has bought the Circle."

Anora snorts. "If rumors were horses."

Likely the Chantry is furious. Anora cares not. The Grand Cleric sent no call for aid after the loss at Ostagar. The Templars who defended the city did so as Fereldans. The rest never strayed from the Chantry.

She knows the mage's research; the findings were not sealed. Corypheus was a magister in ancient Tevinter, a priest of Dumat. He gave up much of his wealth in service to his dragon god. There is little else about him.

The Warden, however, looks transfixed.

"I did contact several people in Tevinter," she says. "It turns out that's where I'd heard it. There's a legend, that the magister Corypheus still lives, locked away somewhere in the ancient Imperium. When you near his tomb, he calls out."

Anora frowns. "A call? Like—"

"A darkspawn, aye." The Warden looks perplexed. "The Architect made me wonder. I cannot imagine what broodmother made him—there is piss-poor research on this, you can guess. But if some broodmothers were once human…"

"So perhaps this Architect?"

"I have no idea," the Warden says. "I would not track him down again—he wanted to stop the Mother more than help me, I wager."

"But you wish to find the answer?"

She nods, reluctantly. "Perhaps I'll find Anders too."

Anora can no more command her than the Warden can command the queen. So she wishes her luck, and returns to ruling her kingdom.

Her word, however, she does keep. In the months to come, she hears no word of Anders. One sends her a personal reply. Her contact in Kirkwall acted as a liaison for one he considered a master information broker, a dwarven merchant prince. He writes to her he has heard nothing, and adds the oddity of a mage willingly traveling to Kirkwall.


	6. Diplomatic Sanctions

The Warden returns several months later, alone as she is wont these days. Her spirits have improved.

"They finally tracked me down and ordered me to Weisshaupt," she says, grinning like a rich bandit, legs crossed in front of her in the wide chair. "I saw the boy months back; I always managed to stay ahead of him."

Alistair and Anora sit with the elf in the queen's study, listening as the Warden recounts her merry chase. Anora knows it has taken her through Tevinter and the Free Marches.

"Let me guess, he delivered his letter when you were drunk in a tavern?" Alistair asks, too soft from wine to be judgmental.

"Nay, his horse went lame and I felt sorry for him." The Warden chuckles. "He was a new recruit—I daresay he expected the Wardens to be a more glorious lot."

Anora knows from Nathaniel that the First Warden is furious. He sees the elf as having gone rogue, spat on her duty and thrown herself into fruitless pursuits. Anora sees the Warden the same way, but cannot summon the same anger. Nathaniel has repeatedly told Weisshaupt the Warden has left on important missions, but Vigil's Keep's treasurer gainsays his interference.

"I never saw Weisshaupt," Alistair says. "It's cold, dry, and dour from what Duncan said."

"Aye, I wouldn't be going if it weren't for their archives."

Anora quirks an eyebrow. The Warden's gaze is distant, her hands tilting a wine glass.

"I still have no idea where Corypheus is. But I did learn the Grey Wardens created his tomb."

"My dear, if the Wardens have him, can you not simply ask?"

Anora knows  _my dear_  is Alistair's secret term for  _my love_. He calls her that only when he worries. The Warden fixes him with a wry look.

"You know how Duncan forgot to mention I'd live thirty years, have nightmares, and spend myself penniless from hunger? Apparently the Taint makes all Wardens amnesiacs. Mistress Woolsey had no idea what I was talking about. Corypheus is their secret." She scoffs. "Now I'm  _really_ curious."

"Somehow I do not think they wish a casual chat of antiquities," Anora says.

The Warden scowls. "Oh no, it's censure. What the fuck are they going to do to me? Kick me out? If they have a way to suck the Taint from my bones, I welcome it. If I can live to see a gray hair, sleep through the night…" She looks down sullenly. "I wish I could ride here on a summer day like this and not feel them a hundred paces below, looking for a way to start the next Blight. I'll go to Weisshaupt, put up with their bitchery, and dig through their archives. You have to brave the dragon to find its hoard, aye?"

Alistair shoots Anora an alarmed look. She has told him of the Warden's search, but moderated the obsession. Let him think she is still his ferocious adventurer. Let him deal with her this time and make his own conclusions. Anora excuses herself, not expecting him to come to bed. He does not.

The Warden leaves a week later. The princess is sad to see her go. Anora knows the girl adores the Warden, her reputation bolstered by Alistair's nostalgic tales.

Her summoning to Weisshaupt is a ridiculous affair, Nathaniel writes a month later. She united Ferelden against the Blight—as much as they might revile her now, there is little they can do beyond terse words and calls for reform. She bargained with an intelligent darkspawn and let it live; they cannot forgive her.

In the end, the Grey Wardens admit she serves them better as a mobile asset, going where they need aid. They forbid her from any further pursuit of Corypheus. Anora would laugh—they do not know they must make her  _swear_. The Warden will just see the demand as a challenge.

* * *

Sometimes, Anora forgets the Warden and Alistair are discrete so that she will not hear about it. Her husband's kindness and his willing abeyance to her rule make her forget another holds a place in his heart.

She returns to her bedchamber early the next noon, eager to change clothes for practice with her bow. After dealing with the bannorn, sometimes loading a target with fletching is the only way she does not order them all in chains. She is Ferelden—violence will always be an outlet.

Anora turns the handle, opening a door a crack just as a slender hand pulls her back by her wrist. Erlina stands there, eyes swimming with concern.

"I believe the King is indisposed," her confidante whispers. "The princess asks if you would like to go with her on a ride."

"Of course," Anora replies, and Erlina knows from her tone she needs to remove her from the hall.

She saw through the gap in the door, and knows what writhes beyond.

The Warden rides her king and consort, hair spilling like a storybook harlot down her gleaming back, swirling along the knobs of her spine. Her eyes are closed, delirious in lust. She moans and mewls deep in her throat—had the walls and door not been built so thick, Anora would have heard her down the hallway.

Anora moves away, Erlina clinging to her as if she is some weak-willed Orlesian countess who just realized the realities of the world.

The Warden keeps her word. Anora is not embarrassed. She is cold, heart punctured by a spear of ice.

* * *

"Damned Orlesians," Anora hisses, some years later.

Alistair sits up, sleep fading from his eyes. "The Chantry kind or the stinky cheese kind?"

"I don't know if they know themselves, anymore."

Anora lets the paper fall into her lap. She does not take to reading correspondences in bed—elsewise she would rival her husband in poor sleep—but she makes exception for Orlesian news ever since she first heard the rumblings of conquest.

"What gossip?" he asks quietly.

The news comes from her father in Montsimmard, more blunt and intuitive than her agents. Wardens forsake king and country after the Joining, but no force in the world will supplant Ferelden for her father. A grand duke— _servant-raping bastard, he writes_ —has formed an alliance with several influential nobles, first among them a duchess— _painted, backstabbing harlot, he writes_ —to press demands on the Empress. Lower crown authority seems likely. An invasion of Ferelden, another. While he will never like the Empress, his lack of derogatory remarks concerning her person makes Anora surmise Celene is against invasion.

An invasion cannot happen. The bannorn is already short on levies. Those they have are needed to rebuild. The treasury lacks coin to hire enough mercenaries to repel an invasion, and Anora will not become a beggar queen.

Her father would ride to each chateau and slaughter every duke and duchess with the word "expansion" on their carmine lips, but Anora must make Orlais see Ferelden will not be—as the Warden might say—fucked with.

"We will need to best Orlais with diplomacy," she says. "Don't you agree?" She tries to ask his opinion whenever she can. She has taught him well over the years, and he stays happy knowing she heeds his counsel. Appears to heed, sometimes, but Anora does not say that.

"I don't want to use our daughter like a bargaining chip."

Anora shakes her head. "Nor I." She does not say why. "We need to forge more alliances, besides trade. Thankfully most countries have some grudge against Orlais. The Free Marches, for a start. They value independence." She thinks more, a plan sketching itself in her mind. "Alistair, you should travel abroad to make allies. I can stay here and respond quickly to any developments."

Her husband sputters. He can look regal when he wishes—he has learned to dampen his boyish smile to an intelligent if kind grin. Without clothes, he looks almost guileless.

"Aren't you the diplomat between us? I'm a—"

"—King," she states. She has dragged him like a stubborn horse out of most of his lingering insecurities, but flickers sometimes appear. "Fools say you're a royal bastard. Fools say I'm an up-jumped farm girl. Your kin may have denied your legitimacy, but you grew into your crown better than any blueblood."

Fools also say she has groomed him like a lapdog.  _Idiots._  Her mother died young. If anything happens to her, she will not leave her husband like a sheep at slaughter.

He grins sheepishly at the compliment. She does not flatter him with untruths. When he began learning of politics, she kept him beside her at court. At first he observed. She wanted him to collect precedents, and realize any attempt to curtail her would leave him adrift in a squall of legislation. Soon, she let him answer basic petitions—she would give small nods or dissents only he could see, and if he understood her reasoning, he would concede a cause to the petitioner. If he did not know, it was not a king's prerogative to explain his every decision. She let him sit through the discomfort of giving the unexcused final word; he best get used to it. They traded places some days—precedents are useless without a mind to understand and reform them. By the time her child made sitting on the throne a back-seizing agony, she trusted his judgment.

Erlina had stood close, in case a noble presumed too much. Anora smiled savagely from her bed when her confidante described Alistair's refusal to a bann's presumptuous request.

"Can I take someone along at least? Uncle Teagan?"

She would insist he take a companion. What pleases her is his suggestion. Bann Teagan has none of the stodgy hang-ups regarding foreigners shared by most banns. Perhaps the one good influence of Lady Isolde. Nor does he play the same games as his brother.

"That is a good thought." Anora smiles. "Teagan will be good company."

He kisses her, sweetly, softly. He is not always as sweet or as soft; she would find him insufferable otherwise. She lets fools mistake her king's friendliness for simplicity and artless candor. He will never be a schemer, but she fills that role. She rules, he leads, though the line blurs often enough.

"I think Kirkwall would be a good place to start," she says. "That was—"

"—where the Ferelden apostate beat back the Qunari?"

Anora smiles with pride. "They named him Champion for that," she muses. "His influence is public rather than political; they still do not have a new viscount. But Kirkwall is a city-state; a rich, powerful citizen can have substantial weight. Even a mage, I suppose."

One Ferelden mage defeated an Arishock in open combat. The city-states are strange places to her. She hears rumors the Knight-Commander there has gone mad, torturing mages and bathing in their blood. She doubts the bathing part, but other rumors seem true to one with unchecked power and a righteous hatred. And still a mage possesses the city's highest honor.

"I wonder if I saw him."

"When?"

"Lothering," he answers. "We passed through after Ostagar. There's an adventure novel about the exploits of the Champion, Hawke, and it claims he's an apostate from Lothering."

"You read adventure novels?" she asks, prodding him with her foot. _Lothering_ , of all places.

"She likes them before bed," he miffs.

Alistair is raising his princess to be a warrior queen. Even her dreams swirl with duels and derring-do. Anora thanks the Maker the girl is also clever.

While he travels the Marches, Anora will comb for Orlesian agents. She has her own in Orlais; it is foolish for them not to have the same. She does not kill them unless they moonlight as assassins—Empress Celene pays blood with blood. Instead she befriends them, feeds them. A wrong spy cuts more than a dead one.

In the best of all worlds, Orlais would erupt in civil war and smash their chevaliers into each other instead of her border. If she must find a way to prod such inclinations in Orlais' sullen nobility, so be it. Whichever side won, Ferelden would have more time to prepare, and if invasion happened, a winded enemy.

Thoughts flowering in her mind, she makes a note to ask her father and her agents—how much does Empress Celene wish to avoid war with Ferelden?

* * *

The princess will be a battle maid if her father has any say in it. Alistair has begun to teach her the basics of swordplay. Anora is relieved the girl is young enough to see it as a game. Though her husband means well, the child is agile more than strong. Anything larger than a buckler will send her careening onto the grass. She knows to wait for her best moment—the time to ask for a present now, the time to land a dagger in the kidneys when she is older. Perhaps she needs a different sort of instructor. The queen recalls two of the Warden's companions, the elf Zevran and the red-haired Leliana. They moved like foxes, as lethal in a single strike as some warriors are in an entire fight. A bard and an assassin, she thinks. What  _fine_  mentors for her child.

Anora watches them for a second reason. Abilities gained as a Templar remain even when their user cares nothing for the Chantry. Even if she were of mind to hide a mage-child from the Circle, Alistair would sense the magic just as she senses lies. _Potential mage-child_ , Anora corrects herself. Who can say what she saw, flooded in pain, emotions racing as the princess uttered her first cry? She only has a few more years of painful waiting before she knows.

 


	7. Returns and Concessions

"Better. Draw with your back, not your arm." Anora sees her muscles contracting beneath her blouse. "Look straight. Good."

The arrow flies loose and buries itself in the target, inches from the edge. The princess frowns, her hazel eyes clouding.

"It didn't hit the center."

Anora remembers her first days of using a bow. The wind, the bowstring, her shoes—it was all their fault, until her father said she aimed like a man with the clap. She only learned what he meant when she asked a groom, who dropped a saddle he was laughing so hard. It scuffed the leather, and so Anora promised to keep his secret if he explained the joke. Suffice it to say, she became a better archer.

Sword practice also filled her younger days. Alas, she has no time for everything. She sticks with the one that makes her the least sweaty. She wears a dress now, one designed for hunting and riding with pleated skirts allowing movement. Her hair hangs in a cord down her back; Erlina has told her horror stories of Orlesian women who never let their hair catch the wind. Some involve spiders.

"You dropped your chin and closed the wrong eye at the last moment," she offers. "Good practice will make it better."

Anora raises her bow, nocks an arrow, and looses it. The arrow hits a hair away from the bull's-eye. Good enough. She can loose several arrows most days and keep her form, but moving creatures take more dedication. At least she has a good falcon.

Alistair gave her the bow years ago. Its black wood fits her long fingers and the runes worked into the arms give it more power. He left for the Free Marches seven months ago. Anora misses waking to his warm presence. She misses glancing at him during court and knowing they are mocking the same bann's hat.

Her daughter nocks another arrow and lets it go before Anora can say her shoulder is too high and her hips uneven. The arrow flies wide.

" _Good_ practice, love. You do not want to shoot a grounds keeper."

She hears the hoofbeats well before the two horses come into sight. The first is a black mare with no markings and the other a heavy-boned blue roan. Anora recognizes the first horse. She barely recognizes the hooded rider. The Warden's shoulders slump and her hands hold the reins like a china statue.

"Mother, is that the Warden?"

" _Hush_." A tall order for such a girl.

The Warden's companion dismounts and kneels. The elf slides off her horse, lands hard, and sinks to her knees.

"Your Majesty, I apologize we did not send word." The man's voice is raspy. "We were traveling as quietly as possible."

Anora places that voice. Nathaniel Howe. She bids them to rise. Murmuring for the curious child to stay put, she walks to the Warden. Nathaniel has already taken her arm. Her free hand pulls back her hood, and confirms what Anora caught in shadow.

The Warden has always been small and hard-cut. She is haggard now, eye sockets dark and cheeks hollow.

Anora's silence speaks for itself.

The Howe's face is drawn from stress. "The Warden-Commander has been near Kirkwall, on a mission for the Grey Wardens."

Anora would applaud his loyalty, were it not her asking questions. "Did she find Corypheus?"

The Warden's eyes glance up. They are bright—not feverish, but strangely iridescent. "Aye," she croaks. "My blood was found wanting."

Nathaniel rolls his eyes. "That name is almost as bitter as my father's is to me. Your Majesty, may I please take her inside? She's not injured, just…groggy. I can speak with you at your leisure."

"My leisure ended the moment her horse came clopping near. Come, I will see she is stowed away." Anora looks down at the princess. "Find a stable boy for the horses, and then put the bows away."

" _But_ —" An icy look cuts her off. Anora is not a harsh mother, but she yields like a winter storm.

The Warden focuses on nothing, wane like a guttering candle, except for her too-bright eyes. Suddenly Anora realizes where she has seen this. She is glad the king is gone.

* * *

_"All of Ferelden owes you a debt, Warden. Ask a boon and you shall have it."_

_The Warden would look half a forest spirit were she not leaning on a cane. A fine cane, made for a man who would die loved by his children, if only for his generous estate. The Warden had refused it until reality refused to bend. The dragon's teeth bit clean through the bone. Wynne has inundated her with healing magic, but chinks in bone take time to fill. The Warden can walk with aid though, if not without pain._

_She dresses in a skirt and jerkin, the fabric green velvet and the leather copper-brown doe skin. Her white sleeves hang loose at her elbows, accentuating her slender wrists and a jade-studded golden cuff. For once, the kohl lining her eyes has been applied with a slender brush instead of hasty fingers._

_"You Majesty," she says, voice pitched to carry. "I only wish to serve Ferelden and the Grey Wardens. If I may ask a boon, I want a better life for my people in the Alienage."_

_Anora finds this easy to grant, even though the Warden quickly passes the position of bann onto her cousin. When the official words have all been said, Anora steps closer to the puzzling elf._

_"What are your plans now, Warden?"_

_The elf smiles as if she knows Anora won't like them. "I've crisscrossed Ferelden for lost swords and mad cultists, but I have never been further north than Denerim. I wish to travel."_

_Anora would not choose such an adventure when Ferelden has just staggered back from ruin, but she cannot blame the girl for wanting a reprieve._

_"Then travel well," she says at last. "Amaranthine will need its Warden-Commander soon."_

* * *

Nathaniel picks up the Warden as they climb the wide stairs, less because she cannot walk and more because he walks faster. When Anora herds him into the chamber the Warden always occupies, he drops her on the feather bed like a sack of potatoes.

Her eyes flutter drowsily and she seems to doze. Hesitating a moment, Nathaniel undoes the straps to her breastplate and pulls it off, along with her daggers. She still favors black armor, though the suit she has worn since Amaranthine is sleeker, with the outline of a dragon's face studded with oxblood eyes. She wears a short tunic beneath, old and worn. He removes her gauntlets—Anora's eyes dart to the scars on her arms.

The queen closes the door. Her voice can still crack like a whip. "Sit, Nathaniel Howe. You will explain to me why the Warden-Commander acts like a lyrium-addled Templar."

He blanches, before dragging the nearest chair to the Warden's bedside. Anora does not know if she is angrier at Howe, the elf, or the Grey Wardens. She has not seen the boy in years, only in correspondence. Writing that she cares not for blood ties is easier than thinking it now. He takes after his mother's family at least. Tall, strong looks, instead of his father's weasel face. Same pallid complexion, but perhaps that comes from dour Amaranthine and its cloudy days.

"Weisshaupt wanted my assistance in the Free Marches," he begins. "While there, I learned the Warden-Commander was nearby—I had not seen her in months. Weisshaupt sent me a message: talk her out of finding this accursed place or leave her to die in it." He breathes long and low, the sound lupine in his throat. "Of course she found Corypheus. And he found her."

"You disregarded orders?" That is obvious, from the way he sits at her side and holds her hand.

"I was too furious to leave her. This was what's kept her away from m—Amaranthine?" He catches himself, but Anora is faster. "Carta dwarves followed her, I know not why. I found her underground, at a seal of some kind. I don't know how long she'd been down there. She bled herself, thinking it needed Warden blood. Only thing I could get out of her was 'blood of the hawk.' And that voice…awful."

"What voice?" Anora remembers the Warden's mutterings about a call.

The Howe stares into his memories. "Wardens hear darkspawn and they can hear us. It was talking to me. It wanted out. Once I heard it, I wanted in. I stopped hearing it once I carried her out, but she…did not." He looks to the elf, his expression torn between concern and regret. "A Wardens on my ship back to Amaranthine was a mage. She suggested lyrium potions—it does things to your mind if you aren't a mage. It snapped her out of it, but now she's…hung over. She wanted me to take her here. Amaranthine shouldn't see her like this. _You_ shouldn't see her like this."

 _And yet I do._  "So this creature?"

Nathaniel shakes his head. "We never entered the tomb. Maker knows if that Carta gang could find a way in. She wouldn't shut up about blood of the fucking hawk; I have no idea who might throw themselves at the tower now."

Anora does not pretend to understand the intricacies of the Blight, the darkspawn, or the Grey Wardens. "What was she trying to do?"

He understands her questions, and speaks reluctantly. "Before, she wanted to see if Corypheus was like the Architect—an alien creature, but able to reason. Once she got there, I know not."

 _Half-lie_. He does not know, but he suspects.

* * *

It takes the Warden two days for her blood to purge the lyrium. Nathaniel stays near her like a worried hound. Though the queen is not there when the Warden returns to herself, rumors flood the palace. It was bound to happen the moment Nathaniel carried her up the stairs.

Erlina makes her rounds. The confidante was trained by a crippled bard who refused to relinquish her power. Her untimely murder sent the young elf fleeing to Ferelden. Erlina never learned the finer arts of combat but her skills in reconnaissance are enviable.

As the excitable scullions whisper, the Warden sat up and the Howe quickly cupped her chin, studying her eyes for lyrium. She was not amused at him pouring the blue potions down her throat, or the Wardens' specific order to leave her for dead. On her part, what followed was an attack as much as a seduction.

Anora wonders if her household has anything better to do.  _Alas, my poor cuckolded father, my dear unknowing husband._  Whatever lurid events transpired, the Howe leaves the next day. He is Amaranthine's seneschal—its arl in everything but name and freeholder opinion.

The Warden still recovers. Whatever depraved events transpired in the Marches, her scars and haggard frame are real. Regardless, the elf can still speak. Anora stands at her bedside, her cold mask firmly in place.

"Did you plan to set that creature free?"

"I have  _no_  idea."

" _Liar._ "

The elf glares, her eyes their normal color once more. "I didn't sit down and plot it out. I took what I learned from Weisshaupt and sailed straight there. Some Carta dwarves took interest; I let them think it was an excavation and that they were forcing me to include them."

"The Wardens would have let you die to keep the place hidden."

"Aye. The Chantry and the Wardens hate each other as it is." She looks at Anora, grim smile and piercing eyes. "As the Chant puts it, the magisters were a bunch of cocks who ruined the Golden City. They came back a damn sight uglier. Corypheus was one of those magisters—I guessed that before Weisshaupt. Once I could sense Corypheus, I could…hear him, in pictures if not words. He raves that they expected a golden paradise and found only corruption—the city was already black as sin." She flexes her wrist, eyeing the wounds that will scar. "As I got closer, all I wanted was to break the seal."

Anora has heard too much to properly consider it. She knows the Warden decides things faster than she can deliberate. Doubtless she would not question a strange idea in her mind if she thought it was hers.

"Why do you even care about the first darkspawn?"

The Warden looks away, knees tucked into her chest. "I wanted to stop the next Blight. When the Architect spoke of ending it, cold as his reasoning was, it made me wonder why the Wardens never tried. Ferelden's still recovering and this was a _baby_ Blight compared to others. Why should we suffer more? I thought if I could understand where the Blight came from I could do something."

"You are a stupid girl sometimes," Anora says. "The darkspawn are far from the only threat to Thedas. If another Blight sprang up right now, it might postpone a dozen other crises." The Warden looks at her in confusion. "While you've been chasing dreams, Thedas marches on. Orlais is torn between attacking us and attacking itself. The mages—"

"Aye, mages—why did you restore the tower? The Templars would destroy their lyrium before letting you make them into a vanguard."

Anora crosses her arms. Intuition beckoned her to grant aid, as much as rumors whisper of a mage consort, foolish softheartedness, or a way to extol vengeance on her husband. The Chantry has married itself to Orlais and tainted its immanent divinity. She first thought this years ago, when word got out dragons had attacked the Grand Cathedral, in a conspiracy of Templars and blood mages—on the same side. Only a Nevarran Seeker and a group of Circle mages saved the Divine.

"The Chantry's illusion of detached sanctimony is ending. You must sense the world is a tinderbox."

The Warden snorts. "That's hardly news. The new Divine is trying to play peacemaker between the mages and the Templars. All she's doing is angering both. Are you trying to ally with Justinia, to influence Orlais?"

Anora curses the Warden then. The girl's mind is a rapier and still she chooses to chase phantoms.

"A good thought, but no. I wanted to establish good relations between the Crown and the Circle, in case Circle aid is needed. Forcing the Knight-Commander to dismiss his more hypocritical Templars helped that, but I was not trying to antagonize him." The confession weighs against her tongue. She has told no one. She wishes to tell no one, especially this elf who causes her no end of trouble. Or only this elf, whose idea of responsibility makes no sense to anyone. "Alistair does not know, but his mother is a mage. I suspect my daughter may be one as well."

The Warden looks surprised as Anora has ever seen her. " _Is_ a mage? Interesting. What makes you think?"

Anora explains her reasons. The Warden's mouth softens her eyes, the queen thinks. Her eyes will always be cutting and quick to anger. When Anora finishes, the Warden seems almost pensive.

"I see why you backed that horse. No sense in worrying until it happens though. Alistair would feel it, likely before she sets a tutor on fire." Clearly, the Warden is not a mother. "If she is a mage, it could be worse. She could be mad, or stupid. And you're the Queen, not a crofter's daughter. You could always send her to a Circle in Tevinter. I am told that in Tevinter, mages abuse Templars."

Anora does not laugh but she appreciates the thought.

The Warden considers a moment more. "I'm late for my quarterly appearance in Amaranthine, but I'd rather not return until I feel physically capable of fighting off a coup."

Even if she hated the Warden she could not deny the Hero of Ferelden a room in the palace.

"Stay here then. You can help train the princess in swordsmanship."


	8. Bleeding Crows

Anora checks her face in the mirror. Youth is slow to leave her. A dusting of powder for her cheeks, a shadowing around her eyes, a dab of balm for her lips, and she feels in place for court. She wonders how Orlesians  _breathe_. Ferelden women stay young with fresh air and exertion, not lead poisoning and bitchery.

The letters rest on her vanity, one from her father and the other from an agent. Even her father seems certain that while the Grand Duke wishes to rape every maid and drown every mabari in Ferelden, the Empress Celene does not want war—right now, anyway. He is also bored to death, it having been months since he killed an assassin. Revenge is not like fashion in Orlais; it always remains in style.

Meanwhile, an agent details the number of aristocrats feuding with the Empress. They lick and needle for an opening. Anora imagines a stronger reason—excuse, really—would allow the Grand Duke to sway a majority to his side. A good thing to know.

At last, she is ready for court.

She walks down the corridor of the family wing. Her daughter is not in her room. Anora has begun keeping her close at court. The princess should grow up understanding politics. If she has run off to annoy the arms master…Anora will be cross.

Instead, her daughter waits outside the side entrance to the throne room, pushing her sleeves down when she sees her mother. The Warden leans against a nearby wall.

"Warden?"

She looks a little better in the two weeks since her arrival. Anora at least feels confident she did not break her own fool mind in the Marches. The elf remains gaunt and subdued, dressed in a simple shift and breeches, cinched with a moonstone-studded belt. Her hair is pushed back from her face with a copper headband.

She greets the queen with a deep bow. "The princess required entertainment." She is fond of the girl, if bemused by her wide-eyed adoration.

The guard holds open the door to the throne room. Anora walks through, the crier's voice ringing off stone.

"—Her Majesty the Queen Anora Theirin of Ferelden..."

She remembers the first time an entire room knelt to her. It felt deserved. She lets her face set in its courtly mask—faint amusement, cool regard.

"—Her Royal Highness…"

Her daughter follows, smiling shamelessly. Doubtless some think it pretension. Anora does not care. When a man realizes a woman feels no obligation to be demure, exciting things happen. The queen has fought her way past roles of figurehead and shadow ruler. The princess will not have to.

The door closes behind her and Anora hears a scuffle of boots over stone.

"—Her Ladyship the Arlessa and Warden-Commander of Amaranthine…"

She can sense the Warden wanting to murder the crier. The elf has attended court many times but she has never followed Anora in through the side door and heard her barely-applicable title. When the queen takes her seat, her daughter on the throne beside her, she sees the Warden has wedged herself in a bench to the side, staring fixedly at the opposite wall. Anora surveys her court.

The hall is not packed today. Many faces are familiar: social climbers, minor nobility, representatives, and guildmasters. A Rivaini woman and a dark-haired elf stand close near the back. Anora notices because few elves appear in court and even fewer Rivainis. And most elves stand well away from humans. She sets this oddity aside when she senses the nervous simmer in the room. Something is amiss.

Her first petitioner is hardly unusual, a minor land dispute. The woman's ex-lover makes a stirring argument about her infidelity, but her deed's wording has none of the same looseness. She dismisses the smiling woman and her fuming former paramour.

The second petition breaks the calm. Two guards march in with three manacled prisoners, one elf and two humans. Even from here they smell like they have trudged through a swamp and developed an allergy to soap. She hears her daughter squirming and shoots her a look. A queen greets every petitioner with the same courtesy, until they spit back said honor.

"Your Majesty," the guard begins. "These—"

"We can explain ourselves, good ser," the filthy man breaks in. The guard's lips curl in anger and the man hurries on. "Your Majesty, we came to your court of our own accord. We accepted these chains as a show of good faith but we would speak our case."

This is already the most interesting petition she has had all month. "Go on," she says. "Tell me your names and why my guards' first act was to chain you."

She thinks she knows. A week ago she received word from Alistair—the Knight-Commander of Kirkwall is indeed unhinged, and lunged for his throat regarding several escaped mages. Anora also knows the woman's Templars encountered a bann at the border who did not let them pass.

The dark-haired man introduces himself as Lir. A disheveled beard covers a wide jaw. His large blue eyes are the only thing not covered in grime.

"Your Majesty, I was born in Highever but my parents left when I was young. My companions are from Kirkwall. We come seeking protection."

Anora allows a chiding smile. "What do you seek protection from?"

"We are from the Kirkwall Circle of Magi, your Majesty." He looks sincere, or at least like he has nothing to lose. "We flee the Knight-Commander's madness and will accept any judgment you grant. All I beg of you is that you do not send us back to Kirkwall."

Anora looks closer at the three. None are wearing robes or staves, only mud-stained travelling clothes. Lir's hand is missing two fingers.

"The Crown does not control the mages," she says. "Why have you come here and not the Ferelden Circle?"

"Your Majesty, if you bid us leave for the Ferelden Circle we shall, but we fear most Templars will execute us on sight for escaping Kirkwall."

"Why not go to Tevinter?"

She can sense his nerve wavering. "Tevinter is hemorrhaging apostates like us. We came to Ferelden because we have heard the queen considers us people."

His irons clink as his hands tremble. In his desperation he has presumed. An insult if he wrong. But he is not.

"Your words does you credit," Anora says. "I shall speak to you three later. For now, we will see to it you have a warm bath and food."

The mages let loose a long-held breath. Lir thanks her and bows deep, awkward in his chains. He also mouths a thank you to Andraste.

The guards motion for servants to make haste. Anora hears the rippling murmur. Goodness, what sort of scandal has she created? A part of her argues this is foolish. They could be malificarum who have thus far evaded capture through mind control. The boy himself seems guileless. His elf companion seemed likewise. The female looked wary as a feral cat, amber eyes peering through tangled brown hair.

Yet, Anora sees an opportunity. It is a sketch in her mind—she will need time to deliberate. The Chantry and Orlais, like any couple, have far too much interest in each other's in-laws. The Divine would not give in to theatrics over three apostates, but they would be vexed. To  _annoy_ the Chantry might give the Grand Duke another excuse to bear down on the Empress.

* * *

The three mages now have rooms in the guest quarter. She will take them to the Circle eventually—with an indubitable request they be exempt from punishment—but for now she awaits a chastising letter from the Chantry or Knight-Commander Meredith. The Warden sits with her, eyeing the mages for any notable scars or signs of blood magic. Anora realizes how young they are after their baths. Lir, much improved with a clean-shaven jaw and scrubbed face, cannot be much older than twenty.

Rumors fly in Kirkwall about an Exalted March. The Knight-Commander, known for her lyrium-blue eyes and menacing red sword, has seized control of the city and waits for the moment to declare a Rite of Annulment. There is an apostate who once seemed to be their savior, only for him to lose his mind and murder the mage he was trying to save. As for the Champion, rumors boil and seethe about the Ferelden mage. Some say he wisely waits for the Knight-Commander to light her own pyre. Others say he is a selfish chancer who clawed his way to the top and will hunt his own kind if the gold is good enough. If Anora were to hazard a guess, truth rests in the middle.

The Warden finally asks the question Anora has wondered. "What happened to your hand?"

Anora notices the female mage, Rena, shoots him a fiercely protective look.

Lir fidgets, flexing the hand bereft of its two shortest fingers. "A Templar named Ser Kerras."

The Warden jerks forward. "He cut off your damn  _fingers_?"

He laughs nervously. "Almost. A few deluded idiots try to curry favor with the Templars. One time we had a…confrontation, and his sycophant froze my hand. He snapped off two fingers like icicles. That my hand was mostly numb was a small blessing. The Champion is rumored to have killed him, so I thank him for that."

The Warden's mouth is set in a snarl. Anora knows she feels a kinship with the Circles because of her Alienage origin.

"How did you escape?" Anora asks. "It must be a harrowing story." The Warden glances at her, smirking, and Anora realizes  _harrowing_  might not be the best word.

Lir looks downcast a moment, before affixing a small smile. "It was dishonorable. There was a conspiracy, mages and Templars both, to depose Meredith. Mages who joined were let out at night to meet in secrecy. Rena and I did not think the conspiracy would succeed, but we joined, along with Glaisne. Instead of conspiring, we ran. Losing our robes and staves makes people far less likely to guess you're a mage, fancy that."

 _Fancy that indeed._  She supposes if the Champion is waiting for the Knight-Commander to break the dam, he will not have much longer.

* * *

A few hours later, Anora sits at her vanity, running through her hair with a boar-bristle brush. Erlina has gone to talk further with the mages. It is a warm night, with a breeze wafting through the open balcony doors. Eyes to the mirror, she stifles a gasp as two figures enter.

They steal in through the open door, boots soft as lambskin. The first is rakish elf with long sable hair, the second a sunbaked Rivaini woman, both dressed in dark leather—Anora has seen them before. The strangers at court.  _The assassins_ , her mind snarls. She considers offering them a counter-deal, but if Orlais has hired them, there is no better offer. She shouts for the guard and grabs a dagger from the drawer.

Assassins do not brawl with their marks. They strike first to strike last. And so Anora bolts for the door. She does not consider herself defenseless, but knows it likely a single nick would send venom burning up her arm. Her bedchamber is large enough she wrenches the door open a moment before the assassins reach her. She races into the hallway, calling her guards.

The three men and one woman wear armor but the wrong colors. They walk side by side, swords drawn. Far behind them Anora hears shouts and pounding—her guards, somehow barricaded. The other two slink into the hall, knowing she is trapped. Anora glares and puts her back to the wall. Terror has not caught up yet.

One man goes down with a squelch and stifled cry. The Warden's dagger has cut through his brain stem. She slashes at the female's unguarded face but a gauntleted fist smashes into her elbow. The Warden's arm jerks rigid and the blade clatters to the floor.

Anora groans to herself. Of all the times the Warden must make a daring rescue, the assassins choose the moment she is at her weakest. The queen has seen her fight at her peak, but that's far from here. She wears less armor than a doxy and must defend herself when she should be attacking. Her dagger moves more in jerks than efficiency. And yet, the first two assassins hang back, obviously recognizing the Hero of Ferelden.

The Warden is driven back toward Anora, blocking and parrying from three sides. Her eyes close—concentrating—and she slashes her own forearm.

Steaming blood gushes despite no severed artery. It strikes the assailants and they howl in pain, staggering away. She whirls to the other two assassins and springs. The three false guards are recovering. Anora hears a crackle.

Icy wind stings her skin as two fighters freeze solid. With a piercing screech they both shatter. She catches sight of Lir, his face drawn in concentration. Rena stands at his side, face flushed in exhilaration. The elf stands on his other side. Not a staff between them, but their hands thrum with magic.

The last of the false guards is still standing, and grabs Anora by the jugular. He was too close to her for the mages to hit with magic. She knows he will drag her in front of him and threaten to crush her throat if the Wardens and mages do not stop. His armored fingers draw blood. So does she; the brute does not realize she carries a dagger. She drives it into his neck and he totters back with a yowl. Air returns to her throat in precious, painful gasps.

The Warden keeps the Rivaini between her and the elf. The female assassin is outstriking her, and so the Warden drops down, swiping her legs out from under her. Her dagger ends it before she can move. The first assassin turns tail and runs, fleeing for the balcony. The Warden throws herself at the elf and lands with her knee in his back and a dagger at his throat.

"Who the  _fuck_  sent you after my queen?" The assassin groans but holds his tongue. The Warden twists her neck to regard the mages. "You, Blue Eyes, get over here."

Lir creeps forward, pausing at Anora, eyes level with hers. "Your Majesty, we heard you scream—I apologize for using magic but—"

Anora's pardon is drowned out by a second snarl from the Warden. Anora guesses she does not have the strength to hold the assassin indefinitely. The mage approaches.

"I'm going to sit him up," she growls, colder than the assassins splintered across the floor. "You freeze his hands. If he refuses to answer my questions, take his frozen mitts and start snapping."

The assassin squawks in an Antivan accent even as the mage cringes. "Enough! I'm an assassin, not a bard. The Grand Duke Gaspard de Chalons sent me. I know how to get to him, I can take you there, but not if you kill me—"

The Warden wrenches his neck back by his long dark hair and hisses into his ear. "Oh sweet thing, I know from your daggers you're a Crow, and I know from a better Crow you'll never see your employer again. Attack me and I might consider a deal. Attack my queen…"

She drags the knife across his jugular and the mage scrambles back to avoid a gout of blood.

"Was that  _blood magic_?" Lir is staring at her self-inflicted wound. Blood trickles through her fingers.

The Warden stands, breathing hard. "It's a Grey Warden ability. Learned from a very old Warden."

Anora will ask about this later. Now, she is racing to the princess's room. The door is locked. Anora bangs on it and it takes everything in her not to scream. With a click it swings open. The princess stands back, practice sword in hand, flaxen hair tumbling down her shoulders. Anora cannot help it when she goes to her knees and drags the girl close.

"Was I craven for not coming out?"

Anora laughs, the sound fragile even to her, and kisses her cheek. "You were clever."

The heavy footsteps tell her the guards have arrived. Her laughter dies a pained death as Anora storms into the hall, princess trailing behind her.

"If it were not for the Warden and these apostates I would be choking on my own blood. My  _daughter_ was better prepared for an assassin than you fools!"

The stocky guard captain kneels as if his life depends on it. It very well does. His guards follow suit.

"A thousand pardons, your Majesty. The men guarding the family wing were overwhelmed and the door barred."

Anora's eyes grow icier. "You did not try the second entrance?"

"I…" the captain quails as he realizes he forgot.

"How did the guards in the family wing get overwhelmed?"

"From behind, we think—" He realizes now that assassins understood his palace's layout better than he did.

He is relatively new, she knows. Their long-time captain of the guard retired to his family's home in Gwaren. But such mistakes do not warrant a second chance. Anora bites back the urge to strike him.

She settles for her most glacial voice. "Leave. Now. My elation for still drawing breath makes me reluctant to arrest you. I will reconsider if you are here at dawn."

He beats a hasty retreat, thanking her for his life.

Anora knows she looks indecent, but cannot find it in her to care. Her hair falls in full array to her waist and her dressing gown offers all proof childbirth has not destroyed her torso. The mages have knelt along with the guards and she bids them rise.

"I will thank you more properly in the morning. For now you may return to your rooms. Warden, come with me. Erlina, take the princess to her room and post two guards, then return to me." She gestures at two other guards. "You, stand at my door. The rest of you patrol the palace and grounds for further danger."

The mages shuffle off, except for Lir. He walks closer, concern on his face, his eyes on hers.

"Your Majesty, may I heal your throat? It will be purple in a few hours."

It does feel like a fishbone has lodged in her gullet. She heard pops when the brute grabbed her. Assenting, she exposes her throat.

His fingers are freezing from when he cast the ice spell, but healing energy warms the tips. They graze her skin. She has never had healing magic apart from an illness as a child and just after childbirth. The energy almost itches. A few moments later he withdraws his hand. Anora swallows without pain.

"You will have some slight discoloration tomorrow," he says, "but nothing a little powder won't hide."

"Thank you, for your assistance." It is not a queen's prerogative to offer thanks, but she feels it appropriate.

Lir lowers his head and bids her goodnight.

The Warden follows her to her room. Anora closes the balcony doors and collapses onto the bed, leaving a chair for the elf. She takes it, setting her daggers on the floor.

"Are you hurt?"

The Warden scowls. "No. That bitch hit my  _funny bone_. I'm sure the elf would've pulled my hair if I let him. I would ask you the same but you don't leave much to guesswork." Her eyes rake down and she grins.

Anora looks down and realizes why the mage refused to lower his gaze. Blood splatters her collarbone, and nightclothes are not optimal garments for fleeing assassins. "That guard captain received a parting gift at least." She can only laugh, nerves jangling as she tucks her ponderously-balanced cleavage back into her silks. Now that she has evaded death, she feels almost euphoric. "The Grand Duke sends assassins after me. I'm flattered."

The Warden snorts, massaging her elbow. She too wears another's blood, hers splashed across her forehead. She does not seem to notice. Lir has healed her own gash.

Anora gets an unvarnished look at her for the first time since her return, now that she wears a knee-length shift and nothing else. Her chest looks like it has a second set of ribs, and Anora can see every tendon and bone in her shoulders. A set of scars on her left shoulder bring to mind the jaws of a wolf.

"Did you eat at all between Ferelden and Kirkwall?"

The elf looks at her with surprise. "I never stepped foot in Kirkwall. But yes, what else can you do on a boat? By the time I reached the Vimmark Mountains though, I had only a waterskin." Her eyes shift with unease. "It didn't seem like a problem at the time. It's fine now—your cook tries to force-feed me every time I enter the kitchens. A few weeks chewing and training, and I'll be ready to take on your father again. How is the war dog?"

Anora knows she wishes to change the subject, and she is too heady to refuse. "Foiling assassinations is about the only thing he finds amusing. I do not think he hates Montsimmard, but he grows bored." Some would never understand it, but people like her father prefer to be thrown in a pitched battle than bored. She supposes the Warden is the same way.

The Warden giggles. "I would use my sweeping influence to order him reassigned, but the Wardens possibly think I'm rotting in a tomb in the Vimmark Mountains and I see no reason to correct them. I feel bad—I never repaid him for teaching me to ride a horse."

"Really?" Anora cannot imagine learning to ride past childhood.

"Aye." She shrugs in her jaded way. "Mucking out stalls is the closest city elves get to riding. Before the Landsmeet we couldn't afford horses and feed, but we needed a faster way to get to Soldier's Peak so I bought some. Thought it would be simple. I was making the horse so unhappy Loghain threatened to put it out of its misery. He'd made me passable when a bastard of an Emissary killed my poor gelding."

Anora remembers the black warhorse she rode in on. "Where did you get the mare?"

The Warden smiles, a touch sadly. "She belonged to the Warden who died at Denerim. Nevarran-bred, trained in Orlais, the only one brave enough to ride into Ferelden. The Navarrans call them Free-sans or something. He called her Siegerin."

Erlina returns then, accompanied by a servant with warm, damp towels. Scratching at her forehead, the Warden looks almost surprised she has blood on her. The confidante fusses over Anora in her dragonfly-darting way. She will need a change of clothes, which the elf flits off to find. Anora sighs. Tomorrow she will have to address this.

The queen will need to be more careful. She has a name for a new captain of the guard. At the same time she cannot become too rigid with security…her daughter will not grow up in fear, and Orlais will not hear Ferelden's queen now has a taster and personal vanguard. She will tell Alistair but does not fear for his safety—killing a king on foreign soil would be a military-grade insult to the royals hosting him. She will not tell her father, lest he start an Orlesian war all on his own.


	9. Peace of Power

If someone told her a decade ago she would be standing here, heart beating a pace too fast, waiting for the man whose only redeeming features were his physique and malleability, she would have banished the snake-oil soothsayer from court. Anora stands in the courtyard, listening as the trickling fountain weaves with approaching hoofbeats, until the horse stops before her.

Alistair jumps off his ember-maned stallion, armor glinting in the late-afternoon sun. Teagan follows from his own mount. Anora bows to the king. Some claim it insolence, but she kneels to no one. "Welcome home, husband."

She expects a kiss. Alistair is freer than her with his affections in public.

Anora does not expect him to wrap his hands around her waist and lift her like she weighs nothing. A yelping laugh escapes before she can stifle it, and he smiles more sweetly than she remembers. He pulls her close, mindful of his armor, chin grazing her cheek.

"You are a better queen than all the rest combined," he murmurs. "Thank you."

For a moment she freezes, wondering if something has gone wrong and he's desperately diplomatic. But no, his letters have all made her glad she sent him.

"You just now realize that?" she whispers.

Bann Teagan stands by his rangy gray horse, an eyebrow quirked. Doubtless surprised as anyone she and Alistair do not sleep in separate rooms and employ their daughter as a courier. Anora eases away and looks to her uncle-in-law.

"Welcome, Bann Teagan. You must stay for the feast honoring our king's return."

"My queen is too kind," he says with a bow.

There has been a tension between them ever since Arl Eamon supported her deposal. Still, she is happy she sent him. The bann adds polish to Alistair's rougher edges, and has a nose for games but less desire to play.

She hears the girl gamboling out behind her, yelling for her father. Laughing, Alistair throws the princess in the air, catching her and kissing her face.

He sets her down and kneels to get a good look, delighted she just came from sword practice.

"Maker, you've grown a foot!" He straightens and looks to his wife. "And you've had some adventures yourself, my love."

Alistair's endearment makes her pause, but only for a moment. "Only a touch more harrowing than usual," she says with a grin.

He smiles, but she can see the concern. Evidently her letter regarding the assassins caused him no small amount of upset—he even asked if he should track down the Antivan elf Zevran as a personal bodyguard. She, of course, could always use a handsome elf. But for now she has her mages.

* * *

The mages still remain a month after their arrival. The note rests on her desk. She had sent a letter to Knight-Commander Greagoir, detailing the circumstances with only slight tweaks to the truth. Three mages had fled Kirkwall, starving and weak, and were taken without resistance by a Denerim patrol. They would be coming to the Ferelden Circle but were not yet fit to travel. She pleasantly demanded assurance they would be accepted like any child mage.

The terse answer quells her reservations.

_Your Majesty,_

_Because they are mages from Kirkwall, they have unquestionably had interaction with blood magic. Beyond the Knight-Commander's severity, the Kirkwall Templars are quick to discipline due in part to the large numbers of maleficarum, failed Harrowings, and abominations. Out of respect for your past contributions I will not immediately make them Tranquil, but they will remain in solitary confinement and questioned until it is deemed fit to integrate them into the Circle. I understand this sounds cruel, but I cannot risk another maleficarum incident, not with so many lives in my hands._

-  _Knight-Commander Greagoir_

Anora is not sending them to the Circle. Magic aside, they have become the princess's favorite tutors—their forced occupation as students and scholars gives them an impressive breadth of knowledge. And too, they give her a feeling of security, despite their ascribed potential for turning into demons and slaughtering the palace. They do not wear robes or staves, and thus while their magic is an open secret, the court does not fly into hysterics. She knows Alistair will sense them the day he returns. For once, she wishes the Warden was here to echo her sentiment. But no, she has gone to Amaranthine and then the Korcari Wilds, claiming she has found an old friend.

* * *

The torchlight paints the hall in a calming glow. Anora sits beside her husband, letting him recount his adventures. Their daughter's cup of wine put her to sleep almost an hour ago, and so Alistair feels less guarded with his tongue.

"I swear, of all the lunatics I've met, that Knight-Commander nears the top. She smashed the bloody record time for emasculating me." Alistair swallows more wine. "At least I met the Champion."

Anora leans closer. "What was he like?"

"Only sane head in the city," Teagan quips.

Though their meal is a feast, the dining room has blessedly few people she must pretend to care about. The mages crowd together at the end of one table, the assorted grounds masters sit nearby. A few nobles are guests, namely the Arl of Denerim and his wife. The Arlessa looks peaked, likely from her child-swollen belly.

Alistair relishes his venison, the meat dripping in sweet and tart Cumberland sauce. Anora informed him long ago she despises people who talk with their mouths full. He is careful to chew and swallow before answering.

"Very glib in some ways. Caustic in others—he and the Knight-Commander eye each other like stags during rut. Funny thing, he's met Teagan, at Chateau Haine."

Anora has heard a rumor the Champion murdered the duke of that chateau, with the help of Qunari assassins. Even after he killed their Arishok.

"No one _asked_ me if I knew him," Teagan says. "He seemed a decent if guileful sort—the Duke was a right bastard."

The queen eyes them both. "I hope you offered him a place in Ferelden, should he wish to return?"

Alistair hesitates. "You forget, he is a lifelong apostate. I…suspect he used blood magic in his duel with the Arishok. Several people gave me the same story—they were there," he adds at her cocked eyebrow. "The way they tell it, his pirate lover tried to return a stolen priceless Qunari artifact. The Arishok was obviously not the smile-and-part-ways type, so the Champion challenged him. Hawke apparently does fight with a real weapon, but this is a hulking Qunari so, to hear it, the Arishok impaled him and threw the sod halfway across the room. He was too injured to properly cast. Then, as the Arishok approached to end it, a spell melted his insides." He smiles wryly. "A hero, but I have never heard of a regular spell that could cause one's lungs to spew from their mouth."

His wife weighs the story, reminded of the Warden's own…unconventional stratagems. "The Knight-Commander has not freed the mages, declared Hawke the new Viscount, or danced naked in front of the Chantry. I  _have_ heard he hunts blood mages."

"True, but…anyway, as interesting as he was to meet, he has no political influence. I did see two familiar faces though. I met the pirate Isabela during the Blight—the Warden  _knew_ her, if you get my meaning—and, strangely, Anders. Remember him?"

" _Anders_?" The cruel coincidence that the Warden travelled so close to Kirkwall is not lost on her.

"Yes, small world. Anyway, Starkhaven was a joke despite its size—" Alistair stops suddenly, glancing around with puzzlement. "Perhaps I'm just excited to be back, but I swear there's magic here."

Teagan pauses in between bites of potato. The queen gives her husband her kindest smile.

"Husband, remember the people who saved me from the assassins?"

His eyes grow quiet. Suspicious. "You said the  _Warden_."

"I said  _people_ , including the Warden. She was ill at the time—we both would have died had the mages not intervened."

"You—oh  _Maker_ ," he groans. "Are these the mages that psychotic Knight-Commander was castrating me for?"

The mages look up at that, caught somewhere between curiosity and fear.

She takes his hand, a rare event for her. "Yes, but I did not realize at the time. They came to beg protection, fearing execution at the Ferelden Circle for fleeing Meredith's madness. As it stands, they were right. Greagoir told me himself he would imprison them." The mages flinch at that—the woman looks ready to flee, and Lir has gently taken her wrist. Anora will not spoil his trust.

"Thank the Maker they came," she continues. "That same night, the Crows attacked. Two assassins and four  _expensive_  mercenaries." She holds his gaze, using every elocution and tonal trick her tutors ever taught. "The guards were trapped behind a barricaded door, utterly useless. I was trapped, praying they did not care about our  _daughter_." She lets her eyes widen the slightest—to look too traumatized would seem false. "The Warden came to my rescue, but she was weak and ill at the time. I thought we were both dead when the mages appeared, freezing and shattering the fools. Ask the Warden when she returns if I am telling tales."

Alistair is deadly silent. Then he pushes away from the table in a rattle of silverware, stalking toward the mages and brandishing is sword. Lir's eyes go wide, then wider when the king grabs his shirt and hauls him up, sword poised at his throat. Even after trading his plate armor for a doublet, he is a large man.

Rena jumps up, feral despite her summery gown, words a snarl. "Leave him alone!"

" _Alistair!_ "

Alistair turns just enough to regard Rena and the elven mage. Lir's legs fight for purchase but his arms remain—deliberately—outstretched and limp-handed. Rena looks taut as a wary fox but she does not attack.

The king lets go a moment later, steadying him with a hand. His face softens. "All right then. You have my gratitude for saving my wife, daughter, and dearest friend."

Lir is too shocked to smile back but mumbles out a few proper courtesies. Rena still looks like he's a rampaging Templar.

"My apologies for the…theatrics," Alistair says, almost sheepish. "The only way I can tell a blood mage is to make them think they're about to die. For you three, I defer to my wife."

He returns to the table and bids everyone to continue. The mages settle too, their conversation low.

Anora glares venom. "Was a public demonstration necessary?" she hisses so only he can hear. "By that logic, they could have endangered most of the household." It was a very _Warden_ thing to do.

The king looks contrite as he takes her hand and kisses her knuckles. "Don't be cross. I trust you, but you were not in the Circle tower at its worst. How did you get them past the Grand Cleric?"

Anora grins despite herself. "The Grand Cleric has not deigned to ask me…doubtless she will hear soon. If the she truly creates a fuss, I will consent to handpicking one Templar to stay in the castle. Do not think me going soft and sentimental though. Later, we will speak."

Eventually, Alistair washes down his meal with a final swig of wine. The Warden has remarked he eats as much as two Grey Wardens. Luckily for the king he has an enviable ability to retain a defined stomach.

Later, they discuss diplomacy in Anora's study. Nevarra loathes Orlais and respects Ferelden for trouncing them. They have agreed to send aid if, and only if, the Orlesians attack first. If Ferelden makes a preemptive strike, they will harry Orlais' eastern border. A more binding agreement would be reassuring, the Nevarran king suggests. Anora deflects talk of a marriage, knowing Alistair will agree without asking questions. That, and she has no heir to spare. Even a matrilineal marriage to a Nevarran prince seems too likely to imply they have some claim.

Alistair is far from the canniest diplomat, but as Anora predicted, his charm won a few lords over. Tantervale and Ostwick have written up more favorable trade agreements, the latter also agreeing to the cheap sale of several frigates if the need arises. Once foreign matters have been discussed, she reveals her own plans of nudging a civil war. Alistair is wary.

"Could the Grand Duke have sent assassins because he knows?"

"No, the mages arrived the same day. Not even a messenger bird could travel that fast." She sips her dessert wine. "If I were to guess, he wanted me dead to prove our weakness or provoke you into attacking first."

He sighs in exasperation. "Couldn't your meddling give the Empress reason to side with him?"

They sit on either side of an end table, their leather chairs angled toward each other. Anora has explained many points of politics to him from this seat.

"I doubt it," she replies. "I am not sending spies to murder couriers and plant incriminating forgeries. I am merely an insolent dog-lord queen who defies the Chantry."

"Why else are you doing this? You can't assume it will work, and you're giving the mages run of the place. We'll have Templars on our door soon."

Anora does not look away, but she softens in pensiveness. "You have to sense  _something_  else is coming. Did Kirkwall seem stable?" His eyes tell her no, but he listens without comment. "I hear dissent in Val Royeaux between Templar, mage, and Chantry. I am not the only one to see the Chantry's entanglement with Orlais. What makes it implode is anyone's guess."

"And you would side with the mages?" He carries no accusation, if only because she will never take the bait. He does trust her though. A far cry from their conversations before marriage. She remembers a particular phrase about trusting her less than the Witch of the Wilds.

Anora shakes her head. "I side with ending it before it worsens. Of letting other countries bloody themselves and keeping Ferelden at peace. But I will not have anyone think the Crown is in thrall to the Chantry. There is a difference between freeing the Circle and ridding it of its abuses. That boy you  _tested_ earlier—did you notice he was missing two fingers? "

He smiles with a trace of sadness. "When you have people that bent on freedom, they don't  _want_  compromise."

"There is not a hive mind," she counters "Some mages, rightfully, realize the Circle can offer protection. As it stands now, the Circles offer protection with a side of rape and beatings. I have tried to purge ours of the same cruelties."

"And if they prefer their queen to their jailor, you will have a cadre of mages at your command." His eyes are canny.

Sometimes, she forgets she taught him well. He does not know her other, more personal reason. Sometimes, she considers telling him now instead of letting him sense it. Years ago she did not think he would connect her years of mage sympathy with her protectiveness of their daughter. Despite his kindness, he is a wiser man now. Yet tonight he suspends her quandary.

With a quickness she has forgotten, he stands and sweeps her into his arms. Anora yelps and curses. He laughs as he holds her, one arm at her back and the other under her knees. He has learned, though he will not admit it, her counsel should be heeded.

"My love, I've discussed nothing but politics for the last ten months. Can we please do  _anything_  else? You can even braid my hair if you want, I'm that desperate."

"You have odd ideas," she snaps. But her glare melts as she speaks, and her arm relaxes around his shoulder.

He is quiet as he carries her to their room. Anora would be aghast if a guard walked by, given her recent unintended exhibition. A short time later, they are anything but quiet, but Anora no longer cares.

 


	10. Burning World

A letter from the Chantry arrives on embossed vellum, chastising and smug with its knowledge of the Kirkwall mages. Anora rolls her eyes. The mages venture into Denerim on occasion. As her daughter's newest tutors, they receive a small wage. To forbid them to journey beyond the palace gates would be nonsensical hypocrisy.

Anora never considered they would be so useful when she first met the grime-crusted runaways. The princess seeks them out when before she would hide from her older, sharper tutors. She talks about physic and alchemy, things Anora has skimmed in books but never learned from a teacher. The queen no longer needs to correct her when she confuses Tevinter and Orlesian monarchs.

The Chantry declares she harbors dangerous fugitives. They have informed the Grand Cleric, whose Templars will drag the apostates out if necessary. Anora sees insouciant bluster in every word, as if writing in Orlesian were not arrogant enough. Her small consolation comes with news of a new Ferelden Knight-Commander. He writes her with courtesy, making no mention of the apostates who never arrived. Anora returns words of felicity, asking if the Circle lacks for anything, and expressing her unending gratitude for their aid during the Blight. While she accepts either, she finds affection more useful than fear.

 _Let the Grand Cleric come._  She warns Alistair of the forthcoming event. Her husband cannot help his boyish grin; he bears the woman no fondness. Times like these are why Anora has always allocated a small amount of gold for improvements to the Ferelden Chantry. For all the tending Val Royeaux gives the cathedral, they must think Ferelden Andrastians listen to the Chant around a campfire.

Grand Cleric Elemena huffs into court two days later, alone. Anora can tell from her expression this is not a time for affection and cajoling words. In truth, she welcomes it. Like some men enjoy a bar brawl, Anora appreciates a verbal spar. Alistair does not, but he lets her have her day. She ices her smile and looks the old woman in her wrinkle-wreathed eyes.

"Tell me your Grace, who informed the Chantry about the mages?"

The wizened cleric stares right back, undaunted in her senescence. She has a proud tilt to her jaw, a straight back, and no intention of explaining herself. "That is not important."

"I disagree. Was it a citizen? Have they disturbed anyone?" They have not, she knows. None wear robes or staves.

Her Grace does not take the bait, but Anora cares not. "The apostates are here regardless, your Majesty. They violate Chantry law."

The apostates in question are not in the hall. Anora has kept them out of the palace during court since she received word from the Chantry. She suggested they learn hawking. Chances are the Grand Cleric does not know their faces, and her visit today comes from Chantry correspondence and a Templar feeling a strange tingle as he walked through the market.

"Your Grace," she says coolly, "I understand your concern, but I will remind you these apostates saved me, my daughter, and the Hero of Ferelden from a band of Antivan Crows. The Knight-Commander has told me they will be imprisoned upon arrival at the Circle. I will not disregard my hospitality. They _serve_  me—how does this contradict the Chant?"

The woman is old and long entwined with Denerim. Alistair shifts on his throne, glad she does the talking but dreading where this could spiral. Despite his dislike, the Grand Cleric makes him feel like a child. And yet, she is usually one to see reason.

"As good as they may seem," the Grand Cleric replies with tattered patience, "their magic corrupts. You place your daughter and entire household in danger, and you defy the Chantry itself."

Anora drops her smile, cold as it was. "I choose the laws of  _my_ land over Orlais. If Val Royeaux has censured me, why do you accept Crown gold to repair your stained glass windows? I would never  _force_  my munificence upon someone whom I offend." The woman glares now, mouth working for a response, appalled she would say such a thing in public. Anora feels a moment right for compromise. "Your Grace," She softens her tone. "I understand your concern, as much as I disagree. I would be amenable to one Templar of my choosing living in the palace, subject to my authority."

Grand Cleric Elemena knows she can storm in with Templars, most of them Fereldens. She knows that Fereldens hold the old laws above anything civic or spiritual. There is no legislation pertaining to mages, just as the Chantry desires. Does she wish to test the ultimate loyalty of her Templars? Anora thinks not, though she believes in truth most would side with the Grand Cleric if no guards barred their way. Fortunately the Grand Cleric does not want to chance it.

"Which Templar would you choose?" she finally asks with a half-locked jaw.

"Ser Bryant. He is honorable beyond compare."

He is one of the few survivors of Lothering. The Templars stayed to the bitter end, but when darkspawn overran the town, the few still alive fought their way to Denerim. Anora awarded him for his valor. Later, he revealed in confidence that an apostate saved him by burning a path through the horde. The mage died of the Taint, but the act has given the Templar a pang of guilt and an ounce of empathy. Anora values him chiefly because he, unlike many of his righteous brothers, defended Denerim before the Chantry.

The Grand Cleric makes a small choking sound. "Ser Bryant is not a common Circle guardian."

"Indeed," Anora replies, smooth as silk, "and this is no common Circle."

"This is no Circle," she snaps. "Your Majesty, you cannot have him."

Anora offers a conciliatory smile. She knows from Alistair the woman fought the Wardens against his conscription. Her Grace does not give up her own. Had Anora persuaded her, Ser Bryant would have been a compromise. As it stands, the queen did not think the Grand Cleric would agree.

"A pity Ser Bryant cannot be spared. Very well. My husband the King was a Templar initiate, if you recall. I have utmost confidence in his abilities."

The Grand Cleric starts to say something she would regret and closes her mouth. Anora wonders if anyone has countered her since the Grey Wardens.

"I will be writing the Chantry, your Majesty. You will not be able to hide behind your husband." She leaves then, back straight as ever.

Anora has felt far sharper venom and almost laughs. With kindness in her voice and victory in her stomach, she calls for her next petitioner.

Alistair turns to her with a small, nervous smile. "That was a sight, but I really hope you did not just bring down an Exalted March on our heads."

Anora shoots him a coy, incredulous look. "Over three apostates? I think I am below Seheron and Kirkwall in priority."

* * *

"Your Majesty, may we speak?"

Anora looks up from a letter and sees Lir in the doorway of her study. She offers him the chair by her desk. He settles carefully, callused hands entwined in his lap. The escape from Kirkwall scraped away all fat and diffidence, and scribed lines into his face she doubts will fade. His wide jaw and pale eyes would give him an icy look, yet he still has the manner of a young fosterling.

"Is something the matter?"

He shakes his head. "Your generosity has meant more than I can ever express. But, if I may ask, what happens next?"

The queen considers. She is not obligated to answer; sharing plans is the first step to ruining them.

"I am not a seer. But I can tell you what will  _not_  happen. You will not be taken to the Circle unless you wish it—I hardly think you do. You will not be handed over to Templars, or Meredith, or anyone else who presumes to tell me how to rule my country. For saving my life, you and yours will always have a bed here."

 _Strange boy._  For all his demure ways, he always meets her eyes. "You kindness undoes me, my queen."

"If you want to prove your gratitude, you will speak plainly." She lowers her voice on reflex, leaning closer to the mage. "Have you noticed anything unusual about the princess?" He tilts his head in confusion, but she sees a spark and bites down. "Has my daughter ever shown signs of being a mage?" The flash of panic in his eyes gives him away.

The princess teaches them too. For all their acumen, the mages' knowledge is caged by pages and experiments. Swords, hawks, horses—they have never sweated in a practice yard or felt the brush of feathers as a falcon launches into the air. Her daughter has dragged them to the stables and mews with all the imperiousness her future will require. _Her_   _future_ …the word settles in her stomach like a frozen stone.

Lir chooses his words more carefully than the day he knelt before her, caked in grime. "She has never performed magic, or mentioned anything about strange dreams or voices."

"But?" she prompts. "Speak your mind."

He does not look more assured. "I am not a spirit healer—they can truly sometimes tell. But when you come to the Circle, even as a child, you begin to feel an affinity for mages and Templars both, but mages more strongly. It's almost like a tune, from magic and lyrium."

"And you feel this affinity?"

"I believe so," he says hesitantly. He knows the price of false conjecture.

A suspicion almost confirmed is better than a sudden discovery. Anora's eyes close. She hates Alistair's mother then, and his father, for his part in the affair. She feels a twinge of discomfort at having sympathy for mages while dreading her daughter will become one. Blinking, she forces it down. The throne matters; her  _heir_  matters. Could she send the princess to the Circle, knowing it was a stone cage? Knowing her throne would pass to strange blood. She thinks of Isolde, the arlessa who almost destroyed Redcliffe.  _I am not that fool woman._

Anora draws a breath that makes her chest ache. "You will tell me if anything changes—I do not know all the signs."

His large eyes are sad, sympathetic, and expecting her to confirm his fears. "Of course, your Majesty."

"If I have not sent you there, I hope you assume I will not send her." She can see in his face he assumed the opposite. Anora would scoff, were the decision not such a bitter one.

Sometimes, by curse or luck, sides are decided for you.

* * *

"A messenger has arrived, my lady," Erlina says in a perplexed tone. "One of your agents in Kirkwall."

Anora sits up in her bath, steam wafting around her face as her exposed skin grows cold. Erlina never brings her messages unless it is important. Straightening, she gropes for a towel to dry her hands. If only she could slide back in.

"What's wrong?"

"A mishap in Kirkwall."

Anora breaks the seal. Erlina no doubt made out a few words as the light came through the paper. She has an intuition for legitimate trouble.

Her sucked-in breath makes the confidante squirm. "A mage…" her heart bites on the word, "obliterated the Kirkwall Chantry. The Grand Cleric perished."

Erlina whispers an Orlesian epithet. Anora reads the rest and her confidante grows paler.

If only the Chantry were the worst of it.  _Anders_ —she feels a cold clenching in her belly as she remembers that cracked, mirthful façade. He made her aware of the mages. In his own way, he made her more ready for her daughter's possible future. Her agent has noted ' _abomination? maleficar? rumor at this point'_  by his name.

In response, Knight-Commander Meredith called for the Circle's slaughter. The Champion intervened, snarling at her to withdraw. He had his companions at his back, apart from the terrorist. Instead, Meredith ordered the Champion to assist in her self-declared Right of Annulment. Hawke chose the mages and the bloodbath erupted.

Templars raged throughout the city, painting the walls in gory memories. Terrified mages surrendered to the dark side of their gift until the Veil was a ragged wound.

In her fervor to save Kirkwall, the Knight-Commander destroyed it. Templars, citizens, and magi perished in steel and fire. When the madwoman fought the Champion, she died too. The Knight-Captain knew well enough an arrest would end with his bloody death, and so Hawke and his companions fled into the night. No one knows where.

Anora hands back the letter and sinks deeper into the still-warm tub, wreathed in the smell of rose petals. She has a feeling this will be the her last moment to relax for a long time. The storm is coming.

* * *

Alistair considers sending the mages to the Circle. Anora demands he consider no such thing. General word reached Denerim yesterday, the day after she received the letter. More news spills in from traders, merchants, and courier birds.

It takes scant few days before Templars arrive in Kirkwall to find a blood-soaked city but not a single mage. To the Templars, Hawke is demon incarnate. So drowns the story of the Champion, hero turned anathema.

Anora can see what will happen as clear as any book. The mages will be furious the Knight-Commander attempted the Right of Annulment for a single apostate. Fury bleeds into actions. Templars will push back with sword and censure. And Thedas draws a breath for what happens next.

A horse clatters over cobbles and Anora looks down from her balcony. Of course the Warden arrives when action and inaction will balance the world on a precipice.

"Warden!" she calls down.

The Warden looks up and Anora sees a roiling storm. Jumping off her horse, the elf storms into the palace. Anora groans and hurries to head her off. Alistair is in the training yard and her daughter is in the garden with her tutors.

And yet, the elf must have been running pell-mell, for she reaches her bedchamber before Anora.

The queen hears a scream of rage, the sound of boots cracking wood. Anora opens the door and slides inside, closing it behind her.

"Have you lost all dignity?"

The Warden has already wheeled from the pulverized remains of a wooden chest. Her eyes remain dry; Anora has not seen tears since Anders vanished. Only anger remains.

"I walked right past fucking Kirkwall!"

"You did not know," the queen says with fraying patience.

The Warden is a striking she-wolf, even in the midst of a rage. Or perhaps especially so. The elf's spindly hollows have filled back in and muscle once more covers her bones. She wears her hair in a way Anora has not seen since she slew the Archdemon—pressed away from her face with white grease, pale streaks running through red. Her kohl-smeared eyes pierce and cut.

"I'll be gone in the morning."

The Warden has regained most of her former vigor. A few lines have etched their way onto her face but she looks much the same as before her mad quest for Corypheus. She wears thick leather now, and two daggers at her hips.

"I cannot command you Warden, but I ask you do not go."

She lets out a scoffing laugh, breath rasping. "Anders just made himself a crazed revolutionary. I need to grab him, hurt him, and see if any of it's true."

"Indeed, but he is long gone from Kirkwall—if he is even alive. If you go racing across the sea, the Chantry will look at Ferelden and invent a connection."  _Especially given our recent quarrels._

The Warden cocks an eyebrow. "Didn't you _want_  to start a war?"

Anora sighs to herself. The Warden can be subtle on the spot, but she is a gangly strategist.

"There is a difference between influencing a civil war and provoking an outright attack. The latter we cannot repel. The Chantry is foundering. In wake of Kirkwall, the Divine could unite Orlais." She reaches for any card she can play. "Have I ever asked anything of you?"

Her eyes lower, shifting. "Anora, I've spent too long chasing after stupid things. I will find Anders."

"Then let me suggest this: wait one month for the dust to settle. Please, give me your word. Then you can tear across all of Thedas should you choose."

She never gives her word lightly. The Warden is like a horse that avoids the bit, knowing once it is there she cannot spit it out until the end. Her trail will be a month old yet she managed to track down Corypheus, tracing a path from a thousand years ago.

"I can't." A heavy breath goes out of her. "I'm sorry."

The Warden ducks around her, fleeing the room. Anora scrabbles for a way to convince the stupid girl to stay. The elf heads for the back, out into the training yard and stables. The queen follows her into the afternoon sun, shading her eyes as the Warden goes to find her horse.

_"My dear?"_

Alistair has stopped mid-swing and his sparring partner freezes. Glancing at Anora, then back to the Warden, he walks to the elf as fast as propriety allows. Reaching her a few strides short of the stables, he grabs her wrist.

The Warden jerks away but he has her, though Anora can see his grip is soft.

Her daughter sits in the nearby garden with the mage Rena. Both are on their knees on a stone tile, the mage positioning a piece of glass over a pile of leaves. The princess had looked up as the Warden fled past. Rena eyes the elf and Warden. Giving the girl's wrist a small tug, she returns her attention to the glass.

Alistair and the Warden speak with words and looks. She has no softness in her gaze, but Anora senses her steam guttering. Finally, the king pulls her into the stables.

A squeal severs her attention—the princess crounches on her haunches, mouth slack that the small pile of leaves is now on fire. The mage laughs and puts out the flames with ice, handing her the piece of glass. For the first time, Anora sees her smile. Rena is pretty, with a fox face and amber eyes—but her lips are always thin in a frown, her eyes wary with distrust. Any close gesture makes her shrink back, hands barely holding magic at bay. Lir is not the only one to escape Kirkwall with scars.

Her husband and the Warden have not emerged but grooms still meander in and out. One leads the Warden's horse, her swarthy back gleaming from a bath and her tail wrapping around her hocks. Feeling purposeless, Anora returns to the palace.

Awhile later they return, the king's arm around her shoulders, companionable rather than romantic. Perhaps he thinks she will still bolt.

She never knows what was said or done, but by the time they sup, the Warden has composed herself. Looking up from the roasted hare, she frowns at Anora. The queen has learned over the years this is the closest she comes to looking abashed.

"Before… _this_ , I was going to Orzammar." She wipes her hands, resigned. "I can use the time to make inquiries."

"That is a smarter course." Anora nods in cool approval.

The Warden flashes a marred, unhappy grin. "When have I ever done the smart thing?"

 _The responsible thing_ , Anora corrects. She feels a sudden pang of affection for Alistair, who sits beside her. He hated responsibility almost as much as the Warden, but he stays at the queen's side. That he dropped his accusations and grudges to attempt a civil marriage was laudable enough. Instead, he stood there and let his duty break over him. Some would drown, but Alistair chose to swim.

She looks closer at her husband, and plucks a piece of hay from behind his ear. He stifles a laugh, caught between amused and embarrassed.  _It's not what you think_ , his eyes say. He squeezes her hand under the table, callused pads massaging her palm.

" _I'm a mage_." The princess's high-pitched elocution causes every head to jerk up. Anora twists to find Lir, shooting him a look she reserves for the condemned and soon-to-be tortured. The princess saves him. "I can create fire with a piece of glass. Rena taught me."

Sick relief washes over her and the blue-eyed mage. Rena too has gone rigid, though she looks more ready to throttle the girl. The queen's sharp glance coaxes her to explain herself, lest the household grow less accepting of its guests.

"Er—" Her throaty voice catches as she eyes the room like a fox caught in a trap. "A magnifying glass, your Majesty. It focuses the sun, burning small holes."

"My sweet," Anora chides her daughter, "If you wish to pretend, a real mage would not announce it at the table."

She notices the suspicious glances that alight on a few faces. Hopefully, they forget. And hopefully nothing unexplainable happens anytime soon.

* * *

Not a week after Kirkwall, two Templars barge into court and demand to see the Warden. Anora looks at them with unconcerned annoyance as they interrupt her proceedings and wonders why they also do not demand the apostates. She would have asked her guards to remove them, but for a flash of red and a wiry form stepping into the open, boots clicking over stone. The Warden had planned to leave tomorrow.

"Why would the Templars want to speak with a Warden?" She holds her chin at a dismissive angle. "I have not looked at your Chantry board in years."

The Warden, in rare form, is not wearing traveling clothes or armor. Instead she wears a skirt of carmine, pleated and gathered to show her boots. A leather vest cinches her waist, and a garnet-eyed wolf pendant hangs above her breasts.

The speaker nods stiffly. His pale eyes are over-bright and his forehead is damp. In want of lyrium, Anora suspects. His nasal-thick voice drips in suspicion. "Where is the maleficar Anders and why have the Wardens not culled their rabid dog?"

She is shorter and slighter than the two Templars, but stands far enough back to not incline her gaze. Anora knows that grin, one shared by a vixen before she devours a hen house. "Was I there? How would I know?"

The other Templar scoffs, jowls wriggling. Anora guesses he is a Circle guardian, charged with protecting the kitchens. As they have made no mention of other apostates, she thinks they come from Lake Calenhad. Bless the late Knight-Commander, he had kept her letter to himself.

The stiff-necked Templar gives a cold smile. "The Chantry strikes down maleficars and those who give them aid. The Divine herself is passing a law forbidding Wardens from conscripting mages outside a Blight."

Whatever vitriol she might bear Weisshaupt, the Warden loathes threats. In two strides she stands before them, eyes cold as a jade-hilted dagger.

"Where was the Chantry when the Archdemon attacked Denerim,  _sers_?" She spits the title. "The mages were doing a better fucking job at killing an ancient god than you and Fatty here were at defending your Circle when Uldred buggered its arse. Threaten to fuck with the Right of Conscription again and I will ride to the Circle today and conscript every goddamn mage there."

"Warden—" Fatty chokes, face flushing. His companion is momentarily shocked into silence.

She bares her teeth. "Open your yap again and I will show you what happened to the last Templar who threatened me."

Anora sits still, wondering if she should call for order or refreshments. Alistair will curse the errand that called him away from court. The corpulent Templar looks past the elf.

"Your Majesty, the elf is refusing to disclose information to the  _Chantry_."

"Is she, good sers?" Anora looks to the Warden, eyes bright with interest. "Where and when did you last see Anders?"

The Warden's look cuts ice. "Amaranthine, almost a decade ago. Hard to keep track with so many Warden mages just  _running_  around."

"Ah," Anora muses. "A decade-old trail is no trail at all. Do the Templars not have his phylactery?"

The first Templar's neck is so stiff she wonders if he could break it. "Useless, now that his blood is tainted."

"Truly?" The Warden asks with sweetness. "I do believe you've inspired my next recruitment pitch."

However much they want to throttle the Warden, discipline keeps them in check. Anora steps in before they can reply.

"Sers, it seems we can do no more for you. Farewell, and safe journey."

The Templars leave after dire threats. Anora thinks of the letter she will send the new Knight-Commander. No, not a letter. The queen sees another visit to the Circle in the immediate future.


	11. Confessions and Cowardice

Anora opens her eyes and it feels like the dawn of battle. Her king sprawls facedown beside her in disarrayed sheets, the casualty of a warm night. The white cloth wraps around his legs, leaving Anora with a clear view of his well-toned rump.

Sitting up, she gives it a playful whack. His head turns and a hazel eye looks up at her with amused annoyance.

"Wake up, husband. I warned you we are going to the Circle."

Groaning, he abandons his dreams.

He will not let her go alone. Throughout Thedas, tensions seethe between mage and Templar and rumors fly as free as sparrows. Some Circles have rebelled, one has been annulled. Which Circle depends on the speaker. Anora has a duty to go to Lake Calenhad. Whatever madness grips Thedas, Ferelden has more sense.

* * *

Again she leaves her guards to drink and gamble at the Spoiled Princess. She, Erlina, and Alistair take the boat, her uneasiness growing as they slice through the swarthy water. The lake looks cold, despite the warm day.

The Templars are expecting her. Anora enters the tower to find mages kneeling—she quickly bids them to rise. At once the tension of the place prickles her neck. The Templars and mages keep their distance from each other, jittery though not quite hostile.

An unhelmed man approaches her, his elaborate pauldrons giving away his rank. "Your Majesties, welcome to the tower. I am Knight-Commander Hadley." The Templar is young, with neat brown hair and close-trimmed stubble. His voice is formal but not unfriendly.

She greets him with a solemn smile. "My condolences for the late Knight-Commander. He was honorable beyond compare."

He smiles. "Greagoir was a force of nature—Death had to wait until he was asleep to catch him. I served as Knight-Captain, and hope to honor my mentor." He gives the man a respectful moment, and then turns to a nearby mage. "Please allow me to introduce First Enchanter Lucian. I do not think you have met."

In fact, they have. The red-haired, doe-eyed elf is the same librarian who she spoke with years ago. Anora has difficulties telling elven ages; she imagines Lucian is older than he looks. The new First Enchanter sweeps by Ser Hadley and smiles warmly.

"Your Majesty, it pleases me you visit us again." He steps closer to Alistair. "And my King, I remember you from long ago—you saved us all."

"Ah, that was the Warden." Alistair grins, memories more amusing in hindsight. "I distracted the demons while the Warden and Wynn did all the real work."

The elf laughs and shakes his head; Anora feels a thaw in the room. Alistair has an easy charisma, even in his unadorned plate armor. A tempered friendliness that makes people feel warm. He warms, she freezes. Together, they break through.

"First Enchanter," Anora asks, "are condolences needed for Irving?"

Lucian smiles, the bangs across one eye making him look almost coy. "That old badger? Not at all. I am only a substitute while Irving travels to Cumberland for the College of Enchanters."

 _An Enchanters' meeting?_  Anora has never heard of this. She hears a metallic creak as the Knight-Commander stiffens. Discomfort, she guesses. Anora remembers a guard whose charges comprised the female prisoners in Fort Drakon. One evening, thoroughly in his cups, he confessed the women were thrice as terrifying as any male prisoner. Otherness; even the powerful can cringe.

Glancing to her side, she sees that Erlina has detached herself in her slippery way. The confidante can drag confessions from a mute, all with sweet words and eager eyes.

"I shall not keep you from your duties," Anora says as way of considerate dismissal. Instead, she turns to his jailor. "Knight-Commander, may we speak?"

The Templar looks resigned. Giving her a right-this-way, he takes the king and queen up the stairs to his office. It has a gained few more comforts since its previous occupant. Candelabras make up for the small window and the desk has been polished to a rustic sheen. Ser Hadley takes a seat, the chair groaning under his armor. Anora and Alistair take the seats in front of the desk. The young commander waits, fingers steepled.

"Have things changed since Kirkwall?" she asks, smoothing her cobalt dress.

"Not to the degree of the other Circles," he answers honestly. "There is a tension—I had to reassign a couple of my men to positions that were…less stressful." Anora hopes they include a stiff-necked Templar and his corpulent companion. "But Greagoir had a sense of this. He advised me to maintain a stern peace instead of fear."

Wise words, she thinks. He may have disliked her harboring apostates, and she hated his policies for Kirkwall mages, but she respected him. She looks his scion in the eye, voice floating between cold and cajoling.

"If a Right of Annulment came from Val Royeaux or Denerim, what would you do?"

"If I had not requested it, I would assume it was a forgery and burn it." His tone brooks no considerations. He looks at Alistair. "I may not have the Warden here to save the Circle should need arise, but I respect my charge as a protector."

She hears no lie. Hopefully, he is a man of his word. "You know two of your Templars barged into my court and castigated the Hero of Ferelden?"

"Ah." He looks like he wants to blush, but lyrium and discipline have dulled his sensitivities just as they have brightened his storm-blue eyes. "I apologize on their behalf. They lost friends and family at Kirkwall. From what I understand, the Hero of Ferelden took care of herself—Beric and Vardis returned in hysterics claiming she threatened to conscript the tower."

Anora allows herself a small chuckle. "They threatened the Warden, she threatened back. Her bluff was better." She lets her smile fade. "You have my sympathies for any of your losses at Kirkwall."

"My thanks, your Majesty. My cousin survived with minor wounds. She has told me…disturbing things about Meredith Stannard. Knight-Captain— _Knight-Commander_  Cullen is almost my brother, and tells me she lost her mind." He looks at his desk and his gaze hardens. "Why he let that wretch go…"

"Anders?"

" _Hawke_ ," he corrects, almost growling. "Kirkwall's  _Champion_. He held the city's fate and he dashed it on the rocks."

"He should have let the Knight-Commander slaughter innocents?" She arches an eyebrow.

Ser Hadley looks disgusted, though not at her. "He should have taken out Meredith, not fight the entire garrison. How could the fool not see the mages were dead the moment he chose a side? Too many mages unarmed and in danger—cornered and terrified—will succumb to demons. Hawke claimed to protect the city. How is starting a war protecting it?"

"Well said, Knight-Commander." Alistair straightens in his chair. Anora no longer needs to have her foot near his shin whenever he opens his mouth; she listens with interest. "We do not want another Kirkwall. Will you take the path Hawke did not?"

The queen smiles to herself. She can charm, she can scare. Alistair can inspire a want to do good. His very essence swears he will stand behind his word.  _Carrot and stick, so be it._ The Knight-Commander looks solemn—thoughtful.

"Yes. If anything happens, I will choose Ferelden and its people."

"You're an honorable man." Alistair clasps the Templar's forearm, their clattering gauntlets more suited for a battlefield.

Ser Hadley sees them out soon after. Her husband would prefer to only see the Knight-Commander, but a look from Anora silences his protest. A waiting Templar escorts them to the First Enchanter.

Lucian greets the king and queen with a gracious bow, the overlong sleeves of his cream-trimmed blue robes brushing the floor. They take a seat in well-stuffed chairs near a crackling fire. The tower is cold, despite the summer day.

"First Enchanter," Anora says, "I once entrusted you with a secret. Will you share the same frankness with me? Is there talk of rebellion?"

Alistair shoots her a confused sideways glance. She stays focused on the elf, whose deep brown eyes show only wells of calm.

"Your Majesty, I  _believe_  in the Circle. I was fourteen when the Templars came to my Alienage. I could have fled to the Dalish. Instead, I went with them. I have never regretted that choice."  _A lie_ , Anora senses, but that is the only one. "Hadley and I are not as vitriolic as Irving and Greagoir. The…recent events in Kirkwall have excited some of the tower, but how can they not? The eldest mages are too intelligent to cause concern." Mischief plays across his lips. "And the younger ones are too busy sneaking off to storage closets."

That is something Anora noticed as she walked through the commons. Prolific…free affection. But if it kept them satisfied, then the Templars suffering in moral indignation was a sound price. She recalls her interview with Anders years ago—he spoke like the Templars made it their second job to preach chastity and pull apart kisses. Perhaps Ser Hadley has a different view.

"And what of the Templars?"

"Hadley is fair." A small, almost bitter smile. "He thinks the Champion should be flayed for aiding an apostate terrorist, but he is not unhappy Meredith Stannard died in the battle."

"What do you think of the Champion?" she presses, curious. "Would he not be a hero to the mages?"

Lucian snorts. "A hero for what? He should have executed the apostate, then pushed for Meredith's removal if she still wanted slaughter. Not declare war on the Templars." He pauses in pensive irritation. "Perhaps I judge him too harshly. The Champion was an apostate all his life—he might not have known the mages were doomed whichever side he took. Regardless, he and Anders have pulled Thedas to the brink of war."

"Then all mages from Kirkwall are corrupted?"

"No," he sighs. "It is a stigma. The Veil is weak there, making surrender more…enticing." He meets her gaze, canny despite his calm. "If your pet apostates have not already turned into abominations, they should be safe. Hadley need not know."

Anora has enough control so she does not gape or express her gratitude. Alistair's eyebrows rise and he shoots her a small glare—she keeps him minimally informed of her battles over the apostates.

"He need not," she says. "My daughter needs her tutors."

Lucian gives a small nod, approval glinting in his eyes. "Hadley and I are…cordial." Anora notes the traded word. "We will keep the excitable pups on a leash." His eyes sweep from the queen to Alistair. When he speaks, it is only to her. "I can see why your Majesty is concerned. Change is coming—we can hope our efforts are enough."

 _You are wise to reconsider sending your daughter here_ , she hears beneath his words. And too, a mage heiress, if discovered, would rock the core of Ferelden.

As it has for so long, her daughter hangs from her neck, the perfect child she treasures above all. That does not stop the ache in her heart, or the worry that her maternal love will lead Ferelden to ruin. She can bind up her wounds though, at least until they are back in Denerim.

Lucian's wrists roll up as he leans back in his seat, and for the first time Anora sees a white scar. "What happened?" She cannot help the first thought that flits across her mind.

He touches the scar, almost tenderly. "A mistake, from long ago. And a reminder that a Templar can be merciful. "

 _No lie_ , not even a tweak on the word  _mistake_. She believes him. What is more, she can use him. If the Circle leaders respect the Crown, she will feel better about the months ahead. Anora's mind works at the missing piece.  _Perhaps…ah_. She might be wrong, but it seems likely. Anything to distract her from the princess. When she remembers she has never told Alistair, a family of snakes writhes in her stomach.

They leave the First Enchanter with kind words and assured support. Alistair has little to say and so he remains quiet. The tower itself has used its Crown-given coin to fill cracked stonework and polish scuffed floors. Anora wonders if the mages can still see traces of blood on the walls.

She and Alistair stay the night and set out the next morning. Her neck no longer prickles as she leaves; perhaps the mages and Templars merely worried why she had come.

* * *

Hours later, they ride up the King's Road in companionable silence. For Alistair, at least. Anora is too busy chewing on the future.

"Anora, can you tell me if I'm wrong?"

Though he wore his good plate for the visit, the heat has made boiled leather and breeches preferable for the ride back. Anora had given the lighter armor to him as a nameday gift. The leather is the darkest brown, etched and accented with red and gold. The steel pauldrons are regally simple, but of volcanic alloy. Alistair has confessed that as the years go on, he prefers to avoid blows rather than absorb them.

"I always do," she says, half-listening.

He steers his chestnut stallion closer. Her palfrey's ears pin and his head begins to snake, but Anora kicks and reminds him of his manners. She rides a gelding with a fawn-colored pelt, except for his front legs which look knee-deep in snow. High summer glints off their coats.

"Did the First Enchanter and the Knight-Commander seem a little… _close_?" A trace of his monastery years peeks through. His curiosity when he suspects something too salacious to be true.

He supports her guess; Anora would grin were her nerves not so frayed. "Indeed, and impressive for remaining a secret. I cannot see Templars accepting that." She hardly cares though; her daughter occupies her thoughts.

"Nor can I, my love." Alistair's lopsided grin is stuck between scandalized and proud of reading the unsaid.

Perhaps it is the heat that works her nerves, for her eyes jerk up to his. "Do you mean that?" The iciness in her tone makes him wince.

They have murmured such things to each other after making love, physically sated and kinder in leisure. Never outside their bedchamber that Anora can recall, until he came back from the Free Marches.  _My love_ —the phrase carries bitterness. Cailan would say that sometimes, along with  _dear heart_. She was younger and less jaded then, but it still took little time to realize the endearment coincided with a new mistress and a sweet-sharp pang of guilt. Some lessons died hard.

Looking askance at her husband, she knows she has spoken too coldly. He takes her sharpness, her coolness—they come from a place of good intention. He has never accepted the ice in her veins. If their marriage had gone another way, perhaps he would grow inured to it, or deaf. He has not. His arms lock rigidly; Anora hears the horse's gait skip a step in surprise.

"I thought over the years we both came to see our 'marriage of convenience' as something more. I apologize if I misunderstood."

Anora looks away. Erlina and her guards have drifted further back. The queen hears his hurt, senses the battle between resignation and surprise. Normally she grits her teeth when his tone acquires notes of wounded puppy, but he does not deserve her claws.

"No. You have not misunderstood. At all."

He hears the widening cracks and guides his horse close enough their stirrups clink. A warm hand settles on her forearm.

"Are you all right?"

The words burn in her throat. This is when she swallows her ice, allows it to numb her heart and freeze her breath. But she cannot, for he must understand she only had good intentions.

"We need to speak about our daughter—"

At that moment Alistair's stallion deigns to take a bite out of her gelding, the palfrey squealing like a banshee. The horses almost kiss, until the gelding shies away. Anora rams her heels down and grips with her legs, turning the horse in a tight circle. Alistair has reined in his stallion, though the horse shoots venom at the palfrey.

Anora cannot help it. She laughs. Sometimes, the world needs a laugh for it not to crumble. It would be easy to change the subject now and hold out another few days. She wants to. But at last her sense prevails and she spits out her secret, once they have stopped at an inn for the night.

* * *

Of course she does not tell him everything. He believes her suspicions started when her kindly apostates commenced their tutoring. She does not say who passed on her magic to the princess.  _Coward_ , she tells herself. Even so, it serves.

Alistair leans against a mahogany headboard in the best room of the inn, eyes trapped in some state of shock and despondency. Anora sits near the foot of the bed, legs crossed, back straight even though she wants to slump like a crone. They have both dressed for bed. The brazier and four candles send up flickering shadows; it is a cool night, typical of Ferelden.

"I assume this is the secret you mentioned to the First Enchanter?"

Anora is surprised he remembers. She nods.

Alistair blows a long breath through his nose. He is not angry, but he has the look of someone lost who is not allowed to be lost. His voice is sad and soft. "Every time I think I understand you, you fool me."

Her eyes narrow. " _What_?"

Her husband takes another breath, and Anora realizes he too has a secret dragging from his neck. "First I marry this ice queen who becomes a she-wolf on our wedding night. Then I assumed you were going to undercut my influence at every turn, but when I tried to annoy you by asking questions, you turned around and  _taught_  me. Now, I'd thought you developed an odd sympathy for the mages, but it's only to make her _prison_  nicer."

"Excuse me?" she snaps. "You were trying to  _annoy_ me?"

A shadow of his old petulance twists his mouth. "Well…I didn't know a thing about ruling . But I never thought you had any plans on making me a real king—I figured we would argue and you would make me out as a fool."

He is not entirely wrong. She first taught him so Arl Eamon could not sink his claws in further. But that was only in the beginning.

Anora glares. "If you wish to understand me, stop trying to categorize me like I am a type of dog. A  _bitch_  can be any breed."

Her king flinches, confused for a moment. He finally looks abashed. "The Warden said something like that, after she ended the Blight." Glancing up, he shrugs in defeat. "You're right. I'm sorry. But why did you have to keep this from me? I didn't have a choice with Templar training; it's not like I despise mages. I used to, somewhat, but after traveling with them—even the vicious one—I saw they aren't all bad. Mages saved  _your_  life, after all."

"I hoped they were wrong."

He sighs. "Well, until she's set her room on fire, she's not a mage. I won't treat her like one."

"And if she is?" Anora finally slumps, elbows on her thighs, fists under her chin, thinking of the chaos that will come without an heir.

"Whatever happens…Maker help me, I trust you."

His melancholy-tinged smile is so endearing she crawls to his side, settles beside him and kisses his throat. His arm slips around her shoulders. He may claim he does not understand her. Perhaps, in truth, he cannot describe her.

"I meant what I said." Her head rests on his shoulder, voice thicker than she would like. "I expected someone I would grow to tolerate, not love."

The candles burn low, almost spent. Her first confession hangs too heavy for them to write off their argument between the sheets. But he lowers his head, cheek against her crown, and Anora knows he understands.


	12. Endings and Beginnings

"How long are you staying, my dear?"

As she looks up from the princess, the Warden's smile grows false as a double-headed coin. Alistair gives no sign of noticing but Anora sees his eyes narrow the slightest fraction.

The Warden steps away in a smooth swing, half a weary coquette and half a canny fox. "No, I will be gone before the week is out."

"But why?" the girl trills. "You just got back."

The Warden claps her on the shoulder, her mummer's smile widening. "Duty, my princess."

 _A word you are so familiar with_ , Anora wants to say, but holds her tongue. She wonders if the First Warden actually thinks the elf is dead, or if he cares enough to verify. He seems content to let Nathaniel rule Amaranthine in all but name.

They returned from the Circle a month and a half ago. Alistair keeps his word; he embraced his daughter as she dived into his arms, carrying her to the palace as she chattered about her horse. But Anora knows the question bites and the future bays. Lir claims the princess may not manifest her power for several more years. Lasses, in general, show their abilities earlier than young men, but there are exceptions. When he began blushing and stumbling over his words, Anora took it to mean the girl's magic will likely accompany menarche.  _Some girls become weepy fools in need of new smallclothes; mine will set fire to her bedroom._

Already she receives letters from Nevarra, Antiva, and the bannorn, all soliciting their noble sons and nephews. Anora vowed the princess would know her suitor long before donning a white gown, but she has dashed those plans. At least now she has one less concern to demand her attention.

"What duty is that?" Alistair asks, needling in his mild way.

Alistair knows the benefits of remaining calm and kind, so that when he assumes a kingly rage, the entire court will stop dead. He has also come, over the years, to see why the Warden's free spirit makes Anora want to throttle her. Not that it changes much. There is still warmth in his eyes whenever he looks at the elf

The Warden fixes him with her piercing gaze, untempered by time and daring him to censure. "Unrest in the Free Marches."

Free Marches means Kirkwall, and Kirkwall means Anders. Anora still does not know precisely what they said or did that day in the barn, but Alistair had convinced her to wait. He frowns, hands resting on the table's edge. There is too much magic in flux—every week they hear reports of ratcheting tension.

Now the Templars threaten to break away from the Chantry. According to her father, they see the Divine as too soft and compromising, especially after recent events in Orlais. Loghain's boredom gives him a penchant for long letters.

A half-score of mages fled the Circle of Val Royeaux, likely heading for Ferelden. When the Templars drew close, they sought refuge in a village. The apostates expected the knights to conduct an exhaustive search, not set barns on fire and kick down doors. According to telltales, the apostate leader had a beautiful lover, who the Templars danced on a noose to draw him out. The battle ripped the town to pieces. Corner a wolf and it forgets it can be noble. Stand between hounds and their fox and they will bite the closest hand. Rumors still fly that two mages escaped and now plot vengeance. The Divine paid the remaining Templars the same courtesy as the dead lover, the first to be hanged in living memory. By the time someone cut down their bodies, Val Royeaux's Knight-Commander Eron had declared the Divine a cozened, vindictive child.

Another tale passes in whispers, the Beast of Jeveudahn. A maleficar stalks the countryside, murdering women and children. Some say with his magic, others say with an ensorcelled wolf. The Divine sends Templars but the killings continue—stories skitter in taverns of a mad chevalier, or a renegade Templar, and no mage at all.

The rest of Thedas churns as well. In Antiva, a pair of blood mages drove a pack of wild dogs into a Templar camp, killing the knights who hunted for men. A young lord has started a civil war in Starkhaven so he can take the throne and attack Kirkwall. Most think he sees Kirkwall's weakness and makes a grab for power, others say he has sworn vengeance for the murdered Grand Cleric.

"My dear," Alistair begins with soft consideration, "you have been underground for weeks. Things have become…volatile."

Her eyes narrow into jade slits. Call her a bloodthirsty bitch and she agrees. Call her ignorant and she seethes. "I can  _read_ , you know. I can listen in road side taverns. I'm not bringing a mabari vanguard." Alistair starts to protest but she cuts him off with a raised hand. "No, my apologies, travel has made me coarse."

The Warden does not fight with the king, at least not outside a locked room. But neither is it in her to bend and capitulate when she is angry. Instead, she flees the hall, leaving the princess to look oddly guilty.

Anora rests a hand on Alistair's shoulder, giving him a squeeze of reassurance. "I will speak with her. Perhaps the princess would enjoy a ride with her father?"

He does not like to be seen backing down, but he will take an open door when she offers it.

* * *

A queen does not knock. Anora opens the Warden's door to find her leaning over a paper-strewn desk, scribbling in her jagged handwriting. The elf gives her a surly look.

"Alistair is not wrong." The queen closes the door behind her. "Thedas staggers toward chaos."

"The lack of darkspawn makes that more of a politician's problem than mine." The elf's brief wolf grin vanishes. "I've dawdled too long."

"Are you hunting Anders or helping him?"

The Warden shoves away from the desk, the inkwell threatening to tip and flood the paper. Yet she has grown less feral over the years, or perhaps the queen has grown harder. The Warden bears her no personal malice, so Anora cares little as she paces and snaps.

"Damned if I know." Her voice snarls but her eyes are desperate. "Anders was my friend. Now he's a crazed radical? I still don't regret keeping him from the Templars."

 _Half-lie_ , Anora thinks to herself. The Warden's eyes, mouth, and voice are always at odds—her words may be sharp when her eyes are worried, her mouth may grin sweetly when her eyes pledge murder. The only consistent time they concur is in battle. Usually, Anora picks the one she most agrees with.

"People forced to live in captivity really pisses me off," the Warden rails. "I'm the one who told Anders he did good in escaping. I said that freedom is always worth the price. When Templars tried to recapture him, I tore them apart." She sprawls on the featherbed with a frustrated growl and talks to the ceiling, a bare, wiry arm slung over her forehead. "I've done plenty of bloody work but it was my choice. My  _price_. What the  _fuck_ happened to him?"

Anora notices a pale scar following the curve of her throat.  _She collects scars like some women collect shoes. And guilt, too._

Anora sighs. "Time has passed; you should find him—if he is not dead already." She does not hide her doubt. "But there is someone important whose path you may cross to find Anders."

"Who?"

The Warden's desk chair has gone missing so Anora takes a seat at the foot of the bed, heels perched on the wooden frame. The Warden's legs shift to give her more room. "Orlais ripping itself to pieces is wonderful. Thedas doing the same is not. Kirkwall was a bloodbath. This conflict is spiraling. You can stop it before it grows worse."

The Warden unslings her arm and looks up, face cockeyed. "And if it goes unchecked?"

Anora has no skill in showy speeches. She cringed through one outside of Denerim, knowing she sounded like a shrill harpy. Inside, softer but still sharp, she knows her strength.

"I know _nothing_  for certain." But she has guesses, ones that rend her sleep. "The Imperium could make a grab for old glory—uniting the mages and styling itself the only civilized country that accepts them. And if the Templars go rogue, they will make Kirkwall's Gallows look like an Orlesian garden party. You told me you wanted to stop the Blights. Stopping this spiral may be the only way we  _can_ stop the Blights."

She knows the Templars do not trust the Wardens, who so freely allow mages into their ranks. With centuries between Blights, they forget who can actually kill an archdemon.

The Warden sits up and crosses her legs. Her hands toy with a lock of scarlet hair. "And this person?" She looks away, thinking, then scowling. "You mean that Hawke? How's he important?"

"The mages know he stood with them. The Templars know he stood against. The Crown would benefit from knowing his location."

The elf snorts. "More like failed to save anyone. And if he impelled Anders to blow up the Chantry, he dies. Did you want me to kill him, capture him, or charm him?"

Anora would laugh were the hour not so grim. Though separated by worlds, she thinks she understands the Champion better than most. She knows how it feels to stand at the helm, hands tied, watching as the chaos spirals. To be told she has power, but knowing men only tell her so as a courtesy. Addressing the Landsmeet was the first time in almost a year Anora felt like more than a figurehead. The rescue from Arl Howe's estate may have been a farce, but the Warden freed her from a cage all the same. Perhaps that is why she bears the elf affection instead of vitriol.

"What would you expect?"

The Warden's mouth twitches. Her voice is jovial, but her shoulders are stiff and rigid as she shrugs. "Possibly kill them, if they are as mad as the stories say." She snorts. "I don't have the patience for weighing and deliberating. If everything's tainted, I usually burn it all. But I would talk first. I ran with a Qunari murderer, Flemeth's daughter, and an Antivan assassin…I have standards." The strength leaves her then; her grin cracks, and Anora sees her truer face. "I made a promise I couldn't keep. I  _told_  Anders he would be fine if he returned to Amaranthine alone."

Before she can stop herself, Anora reaches over and squeezes her shoulder. "Neither of us has the luxury of self-pity. Send word when you find Hawke. You can decide on Anders."

The Warden bows her head, cheek against Anora's hand, eyes closing in a stolen moment of calm. When her eyes open, they are tranquilly curious. "What are you planning?"

As if Anora knows. Sometimes she plans, other times she picks a random card and works with the result. "That will depend on when you find him. Send word to me."

The elf looks amused. "If I can't wait for your reply? If I can find them, bounty hunters and Templars can too."

"You ended the Blight; I trust your judgment."

She scoffs deep in her throat, not believing the queen for a moment. She would be half-correct. Anora does not trust her prudence in the long-term, but the Warden's choices always improve the less time she has to make them. More importantly, if she makes the wrong choice, she will see it to its bitter, bloody conclusion. Anora trusts that, at least.

The Warden's ears poke through her thick hair. Anora forgets they are there; perhaps the Warden does too. She does not know how often the elf visits her kin. As much as Alistair had railed when she sent her palace guard into the Alienage years ago, the Warden had merely nodded, eyes distant and wintry as a wolf's.

She navigates half a dozen worlds—elf, Warden, Ferelden, Arlessa, hero, pragmatist. Anora transverses a similar number, though she thinks she feels less contorted, less lonely, than the elf. The queen finally withdraws her hand, feeling silly that her palm is now warm from the long contact.

"I'm starting to think the only way I stay out of trouble is when there's a crisis," the Warden says, somewhere between humor and melancholy. She regards Anora. "You should be wary too, not just of Orlais. Templars are crawling everywhere."

Anora knows this too. The Templars cannot directly oppose the Empress—she is too powerful. They might look to a lesser monarch to make an example of. Sending the Warden after two Fereldens—the most wanted men in Thedas—will add kinder to the flames. But only when their paths eventually cross. That will take a while, even for as good a hunter as the Warden.

The queen knows she plays a perilous hand. She has nothing left but eyes and intuition. Orlais barrels toward civil war. If the Templars' blood runs hot enough to test her, Orlais must be occupied with its own affairs or else her home will face chevaliers as well as Templars. And yet, a moment waited for too long passes its opportunity by. She has struck the match; she must use it before it burns her fingers.

Her husband has become a good king in his own right, but he does not always have her sense of things. He sees a random throw of the dice, not a move calculated in probability. It is a weight a hundred times that of her crown. And sometimes, it is too much to hold.

That is why she chokes and whispers her fears to the elf, whose eyebrows rise at being an unintended confidante, before settling into sympathetic curiosity.

Anora knows the Chantry would not physically castigate a kingdom for rumor and small deviances. The Templars, though, are as much a wild card as the mages.

"I need you to end a war and not inadvertently start another one." Her throat is tight; her eyes fix on the elf's knee.

In pauses and conjectures, Anora outlines her disquiet. If the Templars show aggression, the Grand Duke may follow. Empress Celene's desire to prevent a war with Ferelden may fall to her wish to avoid an uprising. But if they are already tearing each other apart, the Templars will have no support. Anora can deal with that. She can call in allies and make new ones. King Bhelen will support her with golems; her soldiers have no weakness toward the Templars' mage-focused attacks. But if such comes to pass, she wants it before her daughter becomes a knowable weakness. She has at most several years.

She has learned a bitter lesson since the princess was born. The strength her child adds to her legacy she saps from the queen. Anora will do things—in all likeliness stupid things—to keep the girl safe.

The Warden has slid closer, hesitant but concerned. When Anora finishes spilling half a decade of torment, the elf has a hand softly cupping her jaw, the other stroking her hair. Finally, she tilts the queen's head down. Anora remembers the Landsmeet, when the Warden stayed her blades after a glance at her. She does not glance now, but holds her gaze.

"I swear to you, I will find them. But no one will find  _me_ until the chevaliers kill each other in the streets."

Anora nods, slowly, feeling like someone understands why she stands on a precipice. She pulls back gently, collecting herself. Tearful breakdowns do not exist for her, but she reins in her unsteady voice, readjusts the steel and silk.

"I know you will." Only then, she smiles. "Good luck, my dear."

The Warden leaves three days later, changed of her normal vestments and daggers. Instead of black leather and steel she wears blue, tweaking the shade of her eyes, and a cobalt hood trimmed in wolf fur covers most of her hair. Her new daggers are a gift she has never used, twin Antivan blades with runes inscribed in white gold on the dark hilts.  _"A token from a charming old crow."_ She snorts as she shows them to Anora. The queen does not think they come from Zevran. Her swarthy mare goes with her, but the Warden was never known for her courser anyway.

Alistair understands as best he can—he pales when she outlines the delicacy of her plan and the edges the coins must land on. But in the end, he takes her hand and gives her wrist a long kiss, conveying his trust if not his agreement. Anora gives him fair warning: they will try to stop two out of three possible wars, but the Templars remain a wild card.

A month later she receives a letter. The message comes from a Warden recruit, informing her that her father had not received her last letter, as he has departed with the Hero of Ferelden for an unknown length of time. Her father himself includes a note, expressing his affection and assuring her he maintains contact with Anora's agents. Half of them he found himself. Anora will not show this letter to her husband, but she understands. The Warden has grown tired of traveling alone, and she wants a connection to Orlais. The thought does make her consciously  _think away_ , but thankfully rumors about the Warden and Loghain have faded in recent years.

Unease drips into the bannorn throughout fall and winter. Spring brings no relief, but summer brings change.

* * *

Anora presides over her court, praising the Maker for the last of the petitions. Alistair feels likewise—his hands curl around the arms of his throne, squeezing to fight off lethargy.

The man arguing his case in a land dispute cuts off as a barrage of steel boots clank into the hall. Alistair sits straighter and gives her a quarter-glance. They communicate with the smallest gestures while in court. The queen's heart pounds beneath her high-necked dress. But she does not fear. She inclines her head, a quick smile that tells him she will speak first.

"Ah, sers, to whom do I owe this pleasure?" she sweetly asks the two dozen bucket-helmed knights. "I can never tell."

None kneel or bow. The courtiers wisely sidle closer to the walls. The Templars' leader removes his helmet. He is a bear of a man, with hulking shoulders, dark eyes, and ice-blond hair. He speaks in a clipped Nevarran bark.

"I am Knight-Captain Eisbaer, speaking on behalf of Val Royeaux's Knight-Commander Eron. Queen Anora, you are charged with harboring apostates."

Charges and decrees are a game she knows well. Did the Grand Cleric not caution him she dances with the law? She meets his stony gaze with a cool smile. Her eyes are nipped by winter, not yet glacial.

"Whose charges? Divine Justinia's?"

His knights shift behind him, but not from nerves. Like hounds, they know the scent of confrontation. The bear stays dour. The Nevarran Accord has not dissolved, but only children and fools think the Templars act solely on the Divine's orders.

"Knight-Commander Eron does not need the Divine's approval." His voice lowers. "Surrender the apostates."

Anora snorts and several courtiers gawk. "Ah, so these are Templar charges, not  _Chantry_  charges. This resolves things easily." She keeps her tone light, marking this Templar as the type to hate frivolity. "In no Ferelden law will you find a statute about Templar authority unless one is in fact a mage. I assure you I am not."

"In no part of Chantry law does a dog-lord bitch command the Templars," he says, voice dredged in gravel. "Give us the apostates or we will search the castle."

Gawks turn to gasps. Anora sees now. She is to be made an example of. His vile tongue comes from practice, likely ordered to say  _something_ caustic to Ferelden's queen, to remind Thedas the Templars care little for crowns and kingdoms. Clearly Ser Eisbaer was not chosen for his creative talents. And anyhow, as before, she has kept the mages and princess away from the palace during court, this time with hawking. Perhaps dangerous, but they have guards and fast horses. Her bitter lesson on foolishness sticks in her throat. Likely she will do something very stupid one of these days.

Anora leans forward, voice hardening.

"That threat worked so well for Knight-Commander Meredith."

Mayhaps dear Ser Eisbaer grew up hearing tales of Meredith's valor and eminence, or mayhaps he just approves of her cruelties toward mages. Whatever his tender place, Anora has struck it as hard as if she called his mother a dockyard whore. The discipline cracks—it does not shatter, to his credit—his dark eyes blaze and a greatsword keens into his hands. Other swords follow after a moments' hesitation. Alistair bristles, his hand going for his broadsword that leans against his throne. The queen bids him hush with a small jerk of her chin. He complies, barely, fingers grazing the hilt.

Anora sees it as a show, at least for the moment. Whatever they are, Templars do not butcher non-mages. It is a hoof raking across the dirt, a bird bulwarking its plumage, but Anora feels incensed all the same. The Templars will hear no trace of fear, only annoyance.

"Commander Kylon, remove these visitors."

The queen does not anticipate without preparing. Her typical palace guard has been tripled—the Templars would know this if they came from the Denerim Chantry, as fewer guards patrol the streets. They have come from Orlais and know nothing of Ferelden's fangs.  _Her_ fangs. Her chosen side.

Palace guards line the room, overlooked amidst the unarmored courtiers. More enter through the side doors and front of the hall, led by the grizzled commander. Alistair draws his own steel. Finally, she gives him a small nod. The King surges to his feet, dressed in finery but still wearing twice the armor as any Orlesian courtier. His leather bracers are patterned with gold-plated steel; a matching jerkin covers a carmine doublet. Crowns and rings have never been his favored metal.

"One. Chance." Steel and reign bury the youthful tenor. "Leave now, or you will not leave at all."

The best battle is a battle never fought. If Anora's army charges on the battlefield, there is no alternative. Her sentiment comes not from kindness or compassion, but her disdain for vainglory and wasted resources.

Ser Eisbaer hesitates the slightest moment, his grizzled face twitching in indecision. Any intelligent officer would see the day was lost—though the Templars are better trained and armored, they are surrounded and outnumbered by half. But when Knight-Commander Eron sent Ser Eisbaer, he did not want an intelligent man. He wanted a bear who would make a defiant copper-crown queen knuckle under.

He charges the dais, shouting an order to hold off the guards and seize the queen. Two Templars follow. The closest guards move to intercept the armored brute.

 _Ah, so not a bloodbath._  If he grabs her, he will have a hostage. Except that Alistair would never let that happen. Anora stands unhurriedly, skimming the hall. The courtiers have the sense to make for the front doors, but they have been barred by Kylon's men. The king steps in front of her.

Ser Eisbaer fights like a knight from legend—scything, brutal, and somehow elegant. Bones crunch as his blade splits a guard from shoulder to sternum, blood spraying against his pale armor. Kicking the man out of the way, he swings his sword into the ribcage of another.

Alistair could wait until he is forced to engage, but that has never been his way. Before Ser Eisbaer can butcher anymore of their household, the king springs at him with his broadsword. The ursine knight is stronger, but Alistair has not survived a Blight by trading blows. He draws to kill, not duel. The Warden is no fair fighter and neither is the king, though he conducts himself honorably enough in spars. Sometimes, she forgets that under his tender smiles is a man who feels most alive in battle.

 _Maker_ , she thinks, he never dances so well as when he fights. Her heart pounds in her throat. Alistair parries a crushing slash from the greatsword, boots deft on the stone stairs as he hangs back, waiting for a moment he can exploit.

Screeching steel and furious shouts ring throughout the hall but Anora only has eyes for her husband. Ser Eisbaer has the disadvantage of fighting up the stairs of the dais, while Alistair has fought in swamps, caves, and burning cities. His eyes gleam, exhilaration overtaking ire. He slides closer—the Templar thinks he has him, and brings his greatsword down to hack him from lungs to liver. But Alistair ducks forward, bats the sword away with an upswing, slips past, and digs his blade into the back of Eisbaer's knee.

The shriek of reaved metal and the knight's pained roar echo across the stones. The Templars halt almost mid-swing, knowing their acts could kill their leader. Ser Eisbaer crashes to his knees, snarling through ashen lips, but he is an experienced warrior, and already twisting to Alistair. The king brains him with his pommel, and Eisbaer's pale mouth reddens as his gouged tongue bleeds past his lips.

Alistair's exhilaration turns to stony ice when he kicks the blade away, seizes the knight by the arm, and drags him to Anora's feet. His sword grazes the Templar's sweat-coated neck.

"My queen?" He sounds every bit the king she loves.

Ser Eisbaer's glare is darkened flint. His pride remains. Even on his knees, swaying from pain, he is almost as tall as her. Anora stares back with ice-hardened eyes.

"You have  _erred_ , ser. Ferelden will never be coerced into deference."

He coughs, his words slurring over blood. "Lord Seeker Lambert will make deference seem a mercy. And he has none."

Anora bares her teeth in a smile and leans forward. "Thank you for pointing out my enemies." She searches the room for Kylon. "Commander, arrest them all. Then I want the Grand Cleric escorted to the palace. Everyone else, court is over."

Her guard captain barks orders. The hall reeks of gore. Two guards and a Templar gasp their last at the foot of the dais while further down both sides stand bloodied. Anora sighs with relief that the rest of the Templars submit to her guards. In the back, her couriers look either about to retch or swear their undying loyalty.

Once Ser Eisbaer is dragged away, Alistair looks to her with scandalized surprise, his breath barely winded. "Are you arresting the Grand Cleric?"

"Our holy mother? Of course not." Anora teases. Probably. "She must be informed either of Orlais' disregard for her authority, or the embarrassing failure of her attempt to constrain me. I suspect the former." The fierce old woman may dislike her, but she does not dislike Ferelden's coffers.

Her breathing has also quickened, though she was not the one to fight a bullish Templar. She keeps her trembling hands clasped behind her back. Alistair's small smile has returned. There is no possibility she could have been hurt and so he does not ask, knowing it would annoy her.

Some forget her husband's gentleness ends the moment he has a sword in hand. He fights without anger, but he will still cut his way through anything that bleeds. Sometimes she thinks back to the Landsmeet. Alistair wanted to fight Loghain—one of the few times he would fight with fury—but the Warden named herself his champion. At the time, Anora thought it was because the Warden favored her prowess. Now, she cannot say who would have won, but she knows Alistair and her father would have torn each other to pieces, to hell with the darkspawn horde. The Warden hurt him, but had the sense not to damage him. Perhaps that same sense drove him to yield when he did. Anora knows not.

She and Alistair have not been married so  _very_ long, but long enough to have a sense of each other. He leaves his bloody sword across the arms of the throne. Her arm in his, they leave through the back entrance. There is time before the Grand Cleric arrives.

The guards are busy with Templars, and servants have found better places to watch the drama. The hall is empty, but Alistair could care less. So could she.

The moment he closes the door, he pushes her against the wall, kissing her with all the sweet brutality lingering from the duel. She has her own fervor and meets him with tongue and teeth. His forearms rest alongside her face, a pleasant cage.

"You drag my down the strangest paths," he murmurs, lips warm at her temple when they stop to breathe.

She nips his cheek. "I keep your kingship interesting."

"You keep me carrying a sword."

Anora smirks into his throat, cursing the fact they will have to return to the throne room soon to meet the Grand Cleric. Then she must deal with the Templars. What comes next will depend on too much for her to deliberate now. The queen might have opened a floodgate, but she now has leverage too.  _How the world is turning._

Unbidden, she thinks of the Warden. The elf will never outride her demons, but at least she will find Anders. Would that the queen could gallop off whenever the wind blows sideways. Such is not her fate. Nor her desire. She prefers wading neck-deep and letting the flood come. Being queen is a climb, a game, a lesson in restraint, and a will to make the scathing decisions others cannot. Ferelden's queen does not pretend to be wise, but she is resolute. Perhaps that is why Alistair trusts her—she has never asked him why.

Most of all, she has not met anyone who could do it better. Though she dares anyone to try.

**The End…**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone who has taken the time to read this story. I am considering a sequel. Thoughts? I value feedback of any kind. :-)


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